A Guilty Mind
by SylvieT
Summary: This is the sequel to Mens Rea. Broken by a reckless mistake, Grissom disappeared without a trace, severing all ties with everyone, including Sara (FMN). Fifteen months on she finally tracks him down, demanding answers. Will love and forgiveness be enough to see them prevail? Set in May of season 14. GSR.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is the sequel to _Mens Rea,_ a story I wrote a little over two years ago in response to a challenge from CSI Forever Online. This sequel has been a while coming and I hope that despite the subject matter you'll give it a try and enjoy it. You don't have to have read the original story to follow this one, but it would help set the scene (Or maybe just read the first and last two chapters so you can soak up Sara's overall mood and where we're at).

I haven't written angst in a very long time, and I'm rusty and a little apprehensive. So as always, reviews, ideas and suggestions are greatly welcomed and appreciated, and a great source of comfort, inspiration and encouragement.

* * *

A Guilty Mind.

* * *

"A guilty mind can be eased by nothing but repentance; by which what was ill done is revoked and morally voided and undone."

-Benjamin Whichcote, _Moral and Religious Aphorisms (1703)_.

* * *

"Grissom, visitor for you."

Breathing hard, Grissom nodded at the correctional officer that had interrupted his training. The words the officer had spoken were so unexpected that for a moment he struggled to catch his breath. Glancing at Manuel, his boxing buddy and cell mate watching the scene with interest, he silently pulled off the battered gloves and swapped them for the already sweat-and-dust-smeared towel Manuel was holding out to him. Playing for time, he wiped his dripping face with it, then the back of his neck, while his mind raced with the possibilities.

His first thought was of Sara, and that somehow she'd found out his most shameful secret. It had to be her, waiting at this very moment with the rest of the women – mothers and daughters, sisters, wives and girlfriends – coming to see their loved ones. The thought of her presence so near filled him with panic. She didn't belong in a place like this, full of the criminals she dedicated her life to putting behind bars. He wouldn't be able to stand a visit from her; seeing the disappointment and reproach on her face, the hurt and heartache in her eyes, the anger in her heart, more than he could bear.

And then he thought, no. It couldn't be Sara. How could she know? Jim would never have told her; he'd promised. And if Sara had found out his whereabouts, God forbids, then the police captain would have got a message to him to let him know. He knew his old friend had gone to great lengths to keep the accident and the consequent incarceration secret and out of the Vegas media. Brass had promised to save him the shame and humiliation to be seen in such a place, and he had no reason to doubt the captain wouldn't have kept his word.

A visit from his attorney, however last minute, would have been pre-arranged and he would have been told in advance. He'd have known, and not been allowed in the yard for exercising, been taken straight to the prison's visiting area ready for the 8.30am start. This visit had been arranged at the last minute, and against his will, a fact that filled him with dread.

It had to be Brass himself, turning up unannounced. Something must have happened to Sara – or to his mother, he thought belatedly – and the police captain had come all this way to tell him in person. They hadn't seen each other since the trial; as per Grissom's anxious pleas Brass hadn't once visited in fifteen months. Whatever had happened back home must be serious and desperate – or too heart-breaking for him to be told over the phone or by email.

The guilt, the constant and unyielding guilt that tugged at his heart and ate at his core, manifested itself again and once more he felt disgusted with himself for what he'd done, but also for what he was deliberately putting his loved ones through. Disappearing without a trace as he had done was cowardly, unforgivable, but he'd felt so down in the aftermath of the accident, so ashamed of himself that cutting all ties with everyone – even Sara – had simply been the only option.

How could he have told her that he had killed a woman when he could barely come to terms with it himself? How could he have faced her pain, her disappointment and shame when he could barely cope with his own? Watching her sit in that court room while he was being convicted and sent down would have been more than he could have withstood, and he didn't think he could have recovered.

He felt faint suddenly, standing there in the recreation yard. His vision blurred, and everything began spinning around him, a consequence of the hot sun beating down on him or of his unexpected state of panic, he didn't know. He closed his eyes to quell the dizziness, only to feel himself go weak at the knees.

"Yo, Grissom, you all right?" Manuel exclaimed with concern, propping him up by the elbow as he wavered forward. "Didn't I say you were overdoing it?"

Grissom quickly recovered, tried to conceal his lapse and growing disarray as best he could. He jerked his arm free. "I'm fine. I―you're right. I must have pushed myself too hard."

"Come on, Grissom," the officer said. "They're waiting for you."

Grissom didn't move. "I don't have visitors," he argued. "I didn't agree to having anyone come. Are you sure―"

"Do I look like your secretary?" the officer retorted gruffly. "Come on. Get a move on. You got five minutes to clean yourself up."

"You sure you're alright?" Manuel asked, the gentle hand he placed on Grissom's shoulder a sure contrast to their surroundings. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Grissom gave Manuel a weak smile, then swallowed the constriction in his throat. "I feel like I'm about to see one." Turning away, he reached down for the canteen from the dusty ground, and slowly uncapping it took a long gulp of tepid water.

"You know you don't have to do it, right? Agree to the visit. They can't make you." Manuel brightened up. "Hell, I go instead of you. Is that alright, Riley?" he went on, addressing the officer. "I wouldn't mind a change of scenery."

"Shut up, Ortega," the guard said. "So, Grissom, you coming or what? I haven't got all day."

His mind made up, Grissom nodded his head resolutely. "I'm coming." And to Manuel, "You keep the gloves warm for me."

Manuel was staring at him with surprise. "You sure?"

Grissom gave another nod. "It's time I was a man and faced up to reality, rather than a coward keeping sheltered behind these four walls."

Manuel clasped Grissom on the shoulder. "Only you, man," he laughed, "could see this hellhole as a shelter."

Grissom handed Manuel the canteen and dirty towel they'd been sharing and, while his companion put on the gloves, ready to resume his training, he followed the officer indoors and back to his cell. Without wasting time, he pulled off his dirty prison-issued khaki shirt over his head and headed to the shared sink. He looked at his trembling hands, and taking a deep, calming breath made them into fists to stop the tremor. The feelings of foreboding and trepidation wouldn't leave him.

Hurriedly, he turned the water on, took the bar of soap and thoroughly washed his hands, carefully cleaning around his wedding band, then his face, neck and chest. Using the towel nearby, he dried himself and reached inside his locker for a clean shirt. Pausing suddenly, his eyes landed on the cardboard box under the small pile of clothes and the stacks of letters folded inside he'd written his loved ones over the months, words of love, apology and regret he never mailed.

His gaze drifted to the small photograph of Sara he'd tacked to the inside of the locker door. The picture was creased and faded from handling and exposure, but it was the only one he'd had with him when he'd been sent to jail and he cherished it. His hand lifted to it, and gently, reverently, he traced his fingertips over her features. Losing his freedom was nothing compared to losing her love, but the memories of that love were what kept him going. He missed her so very much and hated himself for treating her so badly, but it was part of his penance and he accepted it.

"Grissom?" the officer called impatiently, startling him out of his thoughts. "We got to go now. Or your visitor will have come all this way for nothing. They can't delay proceedings any longer."

Grissom gave a nod, padlocked his locker and as he walked out of the cell slipped his clean shirt over his head. He was ready. Come what may, he had no choice but to face up to his worst fears.

At the last security gate before they left the unit, Grissom stopped, stepped aside and staring straight ahead held out his hands. The officer reached for the plastic handcuffs, fixed them around his wrists, then pressed the intercom, calling for the door to be opened. As it did every time, his heart sank at the humiliation of being restrained, a daily reminder of the fact that he was a criminal and no better than all the other inmates locked up with him.

"I wish the rest of the inmates were as compliant as you are, Grissom," the officer remarked quietly, as they stepped through the security door. "This place would run much better then."

Grissom gave a quiet scoff. "Officer Riley," he said, as they stopped at the next security door, "will you please tell Officer Perkins that I probably won't make it back in time to help at the library?"

Officer Riley looked up at a video camera in a corner of the ceiling, and the door buzzed and opened. "Sure."

Grissom gave a nod of thanks, then moved through to the next security point.

"You know they made an exception for you, right?"

Grissom glanced over his shoulder. "This visit?"

Officer Riley nodded.

Grissom sighed. He didn't have anyone on his list of approved visitors so someone had to have pulled a lot of strings to get granted a visit without his agreeing to it in the first place. "I wish they hadn't."

The officer laughed. "Come on, before they have a riot on their hands at the delay. And I'm not talking about the prisoners."

As he preceded the officer down more corridors toward the visiting area, Grissom's levels of anxiety continued to rise and keeping his hands clasped together on account of the cuffs he touched his fingers to his wedding band. It was this ring, and the love and devotion that it symbolised, that carried him and kept him sane and from despair through the tough times, the long and lonely months until he served his time.

Finally the cuffs were removed and he was allowed in the holding room, adjacent to the visiting room, where a dozen or so men were already restlessly waiting. He didn't make eye contact with anyone. His name and inmate register number were checked against the list, and after one final count and a quick recap of the strict visiting rules more electronic locks turned, releasing yet another security door.

He prepared himself for the worst.

As he followed the line of men in, he scanned the room for Brass's face but instead his eyes locked on Sara's hunched body sitting at a table at the back. His breath caught at the sight, and he could only stare dumbstruck and tense, the unexpected surge of love through his body so intense and so sudden as to root him to the spot.

He felt tears rise, tears he did his utmost to curb and hold on to. He didn't want her to see him in this place, bruised and broken, a shadow of his former self. Feeling a hand on his shoulder brusquely push him forward, he turned toward the guard who nodded for him to go through. He opened his mouth to argue that he wasn't feeling well, that he'd changed his mind and to take him back to his cell, but he couldn't get the words past the thick lump in his throat.

Instead, he blew out a slow breath, straightened up his shoulders and made himself face up to his responsibilities, responsibilities he'd shirked for far too long. His eyes once again locked to hers tracking his every move, as trying his hardest to conceal his limp he set off toward her. He couldn't help noticing how tired and gaunt she looked, how troubled and conflicted too, as though still uncertain whether she'd made a mistake in coming.

And yet, as his wife, she had every right to be there. He could imagine that if she'd come all this way to see him, it was because she was angry and wanted answers. He realised too that if she was there now, it was because she'd found out the truth. He thought back to Brass's last call some three weeks previously, informing him that Sara wasn't doing so well, and then to the last contact he'd had with her the same evening, a moment of weakness precipitated by Brass's message when he'd put an anonymous call through to their house.

Was that how she'd tracked him down? She'd sounded so sad and angry when she'd picked up the call, distraught even as she asked the silent phone if _he_ was on the line. How could she have known it was him when he'd been too distraught to speak? The sadness and anguish in her voice had haunted him for days afterwards. Had Brass given her the letter he'd written to her just after the trial, the one he'd left with the captain lest she found out and where he explained his motivations for severing all ties? Could this explain why she was here now?

The expression on her face softened suddenly, and he glimpsed at relief and compassion in her eyes, but also sadness and pain and pity. What did she see when she looked at him? Did she see the old, tired and broken man that he was? Did she glimpse at his shame, self-loathing and despair? The tears that formed, shimmering in her eyes, spoke more words that grand gestures ever could, and it took all his resolve to keep walking toward her and not turn back.

Her hand, which she'd raised to her mouth to cover her shock, lowered from her face, making way to a small, trembling smile that broke his heart all over again. There was love in her eyes now, love he didn't deserve. Never once dropping his gaze, she stood up as if making to go to him, but the nearest guard stepped forward and shook his head, stopping her in her tracks, and she sat back down uncertainly. This environment was foreign to her. She wasn't here to meet a prisoner she'd had a hand in convicting, but her husband put behind bars for a crime he could have prevented.

Tears he couldn't keep in any longer welled in his eyes as he reached the table. She'd come for answers, and he would do his utmost to give them to her. Even if their love was lost, he owed her that much. He hesitated briefly before pulling out the chair and sitting down across from her. What would he give to hold her in his arms, but it was against the rules and probably against what she wanted too. With his eyes, he tried to convey what he couldn't with words, how sorry he was for what he'd done, for what he'd put her through, how much he loved her still and hoped she could find it in her to forgive him.

Sara lifted her hand onto the edge of the table and, her gaze unwaveringly holding his watery one, slowly, hesitantly, slid it forward toward him. His eyes lowered to it uncertainly, his tongue darting out to wet his dry lips, his heart almost stopping on noticing she was still wearing her wedding band. He looked back up to her face, surprised, amazed, while his hand moved too, of its own accord coming to meet hers.

"For better, for worse," she said, in a fraught whisper, looking back up too as finally their fingers touched.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Just in case you are wondering as you read...

BOP (sometimes FBOP) stands for Federal Bureau of Prisons; the service is responsible for the administration of the federal prison system in the US.

And for those who haven't read the original story, or would like to read the letter again, the letter Grissom and Sara refer to in the chapter can be found at the end of chapter 18 of _Mens Rea_.

Thank you, as always, for reading.

* * *

They remained wordlessly staring at each other, for some time. Tears shone in Sara's eyes, reflecting his, but she kept a hold of them. She came full of anger and recrimination, resentment and acrimony, but all that negative emotion had made way to overwhelming love and relief on finally seeing him in the flesh **.** He looked the same, and yet she couldn't help noticing all the differences. She couldn't take her eyes away from his face, the healing bruise on his nose, the downcast and guarded look in his eyes. The light inside them was dimmer, duller, and not full of the sparkle, wit and intelligence of the past, and it filled her with deep sadness.

The lines on his tanned face were more pronounced, and she wondered how much time he spent out in the open. His hair, whiter and cropped shorter than she'd ever seen it, gave him an edge. He looked leaner and broader across the shoulders, more toned, under the khaki uniform, as though he'd been working out, something he'd never been prone to in the past. It suited him. The limp he'd tried to conceal worried her though, and she wondered whether he had received – was receiving – the care he needed.

 _For better, for worse,_ she'd told him, and she meant it. The words had come to her unexpectedly, but she hoped with all her heart that they'd imparted everything she'd come for. Sure, she was angry and she wanted answers, but ultimately she wanted for them to prevail as a couple. He was her husband, she'd not taken those vows lightly, and his mistake and the unfair way he had treated her afterwards didn't change the way she felt about him. Not in her heart.

An officer patrolling the area stopped by their table, the sharp rise of his brow telling them that they'd been holding hands long enough. With a nod, Grissom pulled his hand back and rested it next to his other one on top of the table. Sara removed hers grudgingly, then scowled at the officer but he was already walking away. How were they supposed to reconnect and heal if they couldn't touch each other, not even hold hands for longer than a few minutes?

"How are you?" Grissom asked, his voice husky and quiet, and she refocused on him with a start.

It was the first time she heard the sound of his voice in over a year, and it'd made her heart catch. "How do you think I'm doing?" she replied just as quietly, certainly not accusatorily, and yet she regretted the bitterness in her words as soon as they'd left her lips.

He pinched his lips, blew out a breath. "I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have asked that." His gaze flitted nervously to his right and the mother and son chatting animatedly at the next table, then back to her. He clenched his hands into fists, then unclenched them, forcing a smile. "Seeing you here…it's not easy for me."

She huffed. "Do you think seeing you in this place is easy for me?" She took in and let out a long breath and shook her head, still unable to fully come to terms with how they'd got there. "I thought you were dead, Gil. One phone call when you end things between us, and then nothing." She shrugged. "Not a sign. And I couldn't help thinking: he can't be dead, because I'd know, right?"

His gaze averted shamefully. "I'm sorry."

She licked her lips, swallowed the growing lump in her throat and made herself carry on. She wanted him to know how his behaviour had affected her, wanted him to realise how selfish he'd been. Why couldn't he have trusted her with this? Why had he felt the need to cast her aside? "And all the while I'm hurting," she said. "I'm making mistakes at work. I'm just going through the motions…questioning myself and our love. Our life together. Wondering why it went so wrong between us, what I could have done differently and why the best I deserved was a measly phone call."

She paused and waited for him to talk, take the chance to defend himself and start explaining, but he didn't.

"You acted as if the last fifteen years of our lives had never happened," she went on, keeping her voice low despite the urgency in her tone. "Like the life, the love, we shared all that time counted for nothing. We've had highs and lows before; we could have gotten over this too. I know we could have." Tears of frustration were building in her eyes, and she gave a small, sad smile. "But no, all this time, you're here, and I didn't know. Why didn't I know?"

The question died on her lips, and glancing away she brought a shaky knuckle to the tear that had slid from her right eye.

And still Grissom didn't respond. He just sat there, not meeting her gaze, accepting of his fate without a fight.

"Don't you have anything to say?" she tried again. "Anything at all that would make this…this situation easier to bear? Don't you care at all?"

He looked up sharply. The tears pooling in his eyes told her he was hurting as much as she was. "Of course I care," he defended heatedly, and with a glance at the guard walking past their table checked his tone. "But what do you want me to say? I have no defence, no excuses. You're right on all counts. The way I acted was cowardly and unforgivable. I accept that. I treated you horribly, Sara, the one being I hold dearest in the world, and I'll never forgive myself. I _have_ no excuse, except to say that I acted out of preservation. Mine, but also yours."

Her smile was very sad. "Oh, the 'I have your best interest at heart' speech," she mused, her voice thick with emotion. "Yes, I remember now."

He was looking helpless, defenceless even, and she wished she didn't feel so bitter toward him. "I'm sorry."

"So am I," she almost said, but her anger made her bite back the words. "Stop saying you're sorry," she said instead. "Sorry doesn't change anything. Sorry doesn't make up for all the pain and heartache you've caused."

Holding her watery gaze he swallowed, then gave a nod. "I know that. I deserve your anger, Sara, your feelings of frustration and disappointment. I deserve everything I get. And more."

The self-pity and self-loathing in his voice, in his demeanour and eyes, broke her heart. He had no fight left in him, and she wondered suddenly how he was able to survive in a place like this. She took a deep breath and made herself calm down.

"What about your mother?" she asked. "Does she know?"

His tears spilled, and unable to hold her probing gaze he looked away and wiped at them.

"Oh, Gil," she said in a sigh.

He shrugged. "She thinks I'm in Peru again. Jim uses a made-up account to forward emails I write. I'm not proud of what I've done, Sara, to either of you." He stopped talking abruptly, and she couldn't mistake the sudden fear in his eyes.

"It's not my place to tell her," she said, her head shaking in response to his silent question. "Only you can do that. But just like me, she deserves to know."

He nodded his head resignedly. There was a moment of silence between them where Sara's expression turned softer. How could she stay angry with him when he was already so down on himself? When the love she felt for him was pushing every other emotion aside? She moved her hand toward the centre of the table, hoping his hand would come and meet hers again, but an officer came past and she drew it back.

One violation of the strict visitation rules and she ran the risk of being thrown out and refused subsequent visits. Well, assuming she managed to get Grissom to agree to any more visits of course, because she wouldn't be able to push her way past BOP bureaucracy a second time, even with Brass's and Grissom's attorney's backing.

"I'm sorry," Grissom said again, drawing her out of her thoughts. "I don't know what else to say to you, Sara."

She gave him a tender smile. "I know."

She checked the correctional officers' whereabouts then quickly slid her hand to the middle of the table again, and after a moment's hesitation he smiled and moved his hand too, giving hers a gentle, but brief, squeeze. Maybe they could wipe this first half-hour of the visit and start again? Pushing a strand of hair back from her face, she smiled more broadly at him.

"So," she said, when once again silence built between them, "How are you?"

He laughed faintly. "I'm fine." And to her probing stare, he added, "I'm doing fine, Sara, I promise you."

"That's it? That's all I get?"

"It's the truth."

Sara stared at him with disbelief, almost asked how he'd got his bruised nose, but the directness of his gaze told her he _was_ telling the truth, that he _was_ doing fine and that it would have to be enough for now.

"How did you find out?" His eyes lowered uncertainly then came back up to her face.

Her smile faded. "Does it matter how I found out?" When he nodded his head that yes, it mattered, she sighed. Unintentionally, bitterness crept into her voice. "Worried you didn't cover your tracks well enough? That I'm the first in a long line of visitors?"

"Jim?" he tried again, holding her gaze steadily.

She scoffed. "No. He kept your secret well enough, until faced with irrefutable evidence he had no choice but to tell me."

"It's not his fault, Sara. He only kept it a secret because I asked him too. He only—"

"Don't," she cut in, feeling anger rise again at what she still considered the worst kind of betrayal from someone she should have been able to trust. "Just don't. Don't make excuses for him."

"I have to."

She decided to drop the subject. She and Brass hadn't parted in the best of terms, but they were talking and working through their differences. "A goddamn fingerprint," she said instead, too loudly, and casting a quick look around lowered her voice back to a whisper. "That's how I found out you were locked up here and not working in Antarctica after all."

He cocked his head in confusion. "Antarctica?"

"One of the places I imagined you in."

Grissom averted his eyes uncomfortably, kept his voice quiet and even as he spoke. "I get that you're angry, Sara. You have every right to be and I know it's going to take time for you to—" Frowning, he stopped in his tracks. "You found my fingerprint?" he asked, puzzlement clouding his features. "While working a case?"

Her eyes lowering, she nodded her head. "Well, it was Nick and Greg's case, not mine, but yeah."

He swallowed. "So everyone knows?" he asked, his voice breaking.

She sighed, really felt for him then. "No, not everyone," she answered eventually, her tone more subdued. "Just Nick and Mandy, and DB. Nick is the one that told me actually." Pausing, she swallowed the sudden pain and heartache the recollection had brought about. "It won't go any further than them."

And then she went on to explain about the case itself and how his fingerprint was found on the underside of the plastic nametag window of a navy travel bag that had once belonged to him and been used in a liquor store robbery. She went into detail – a lot of detail – because as she spoke she began to notice the spark of interest and amusement growing in his eyes. She found herself relaxing too, and for a moment the noise of the crowded room receded and it was just the two of them again. She didn't tell him that the driver had lost control of the stolen getaway car, killing an innocent mother.

By the time she finished, Grissom was quietly chuckling to himself. "Ironic, isn't it?" he remarked, a smile tugging at his lips as he stared at his thumb print. "That my fingerprint collected on a piece of evidence should be my undoing."

The woman at the next table stood up suddenly, her chair legs scraping noisily across the vinyl floor, and Sara watched with puzzlement as she headed to the corner of the room where several vending machines stood. She held a clear plastic bag with money inside she fed into the machine, returning with two soda cans, a chocolate bar and a packet of potato chips. Cursing herself at the oversight, Sara made a mental note of it for future reference. When she refocused on Grissom, he was watching her with soft and intent eyes. Her smile trembled.

"Why couldn't you tell me?" she asked, her words coming out in a fraught whisper. She cleared her throat, then brought her hand to her mouth, trying to hide the anguish that flared up inside her. "Why couldn't you trust me?" Her voice broke again, and she swallowed. "I would have been there for you."

Sadness flashed across his face. "Didn't Jim—Didn't he give you the letter I wrote you?"

Sara's eyes lowered to the table.

"The one where I explain everything?"

Sara looked back up, met his earnest gaze dead on. "He did give me your letter, yeah. I get what you say in it, but I can't…I can't bring myself to— How could you dare to presume what was good for me? How could you take that decision out of my hands and think that…my not knowing was better for everyone concerned?"

Feeling emotion rise inside her again, she took a deep, calming breath. "There's so much I don't know, so much I still don't understand." She formed her hands into fists, once again curbing a surge of anger and frustration. "It kills me inside, Gil, knowing you're here, seeing you here, locked up like a common criminal."

"I _am_ a common criminal."

"No!" she exclaimed, loud enough for one of the guards to turn sharply toward her. "You made a mistake, that's all. It could have happened to any of us."

"But it didn't. It happened to me."

Sara's head was shaking. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I spoke with your defence attorney and—" Grissom's features stiffened, causing her to stop dead in her tracks. Unexpectedly, he pushed back from the table, as if making to stand. "Gil, what's wrong?"

He shook his head. "I can't do this, Sara."

"What? No. Gil, please."

He made eye contact with the guard standing sentry nearby, then pushed to his feet and tidied the chair away. Just like that, he was putting an end to the visit. She started to panic.

"Gil," she called fearfully, and reached her hand toward him, "please. Don't walk away." Her tone turned pleading. "Don't go. Not yet. Not so soon. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I—I know I'm going about this the wrong way. It's just—"

He shook his head.

"You ready to go back?" an officer asked Grissom tonelessly.

Turning toward the officer, Grissom nodded sombrely.

"No," Sara said, making to push to her feet too before thinking better of it. "Please, I'm sorry. Five minutes, just give me five more minutes." She looked at the officer pleadingly, then back at Grissom.

"You know that if you walk away now, you can't come back, right?" the officer said to Grissom. "That'd be the end of the visit."

After a long moment's hesitation, Grissom nodded at the officer then sat back down. His face was guarded, closed off.

Sara let out a breath of relief, changed tack. "I've asked to come see you again tomorrow."

He met her earnest gaze with a panicked one of his own. "What?"

"You haven't had a single visitor in fifteen months, and I put in a strong case. Brass and your attorney did too." She sighed. "The BOP said provided you agree, and they insisted they can't make you, they were fine with it."

Grissom's eyes lowered to the table.

"Please, Gil, let me come tomorrow. I'm flying back to Vegas first thing the next day." She paused, thought that if she didn't play her trump card now she might never get to. "Truth be told, I haven't been doing very well lately."

Her admission had the desired effect. He looked up suddenly, and she could see pain and understanding in his eyes.

"But you know that already," she said, smiling sadly. "Because unlike me, you haven't been kept in the dark, have you? You know exactly what's been going on."

His eyes flickering away from her face, Grissom let out a long breath. Then he nodded his head resignedly. "If I agree to see you tomorrow, it will be for the last time."

Sara's anger threatened to flare up again. Why was he the one always in control? Why was he allowed to make all the decisions for her? What about what _she_ wanted? She was about to argue the point when she thought better of it and clamped her mouth shut. He'd agreed to one more visit; she could plead her case tomorrow.

She watched powerlessly as once again he stood up, tidied his chair and then walked away. She realised now that mentioning she'd spoken to his attorney had been a mistake, one that had cost her dearly. She'd known he wouldn't like it if she went behind his back, but how else was she to find out what had truly happened? How else could she fight for him, if he wouldn't fight for himself?

An officer indicated a door, and Grissom gave her one last, lingering look. She raised her hand in goodbye, and despite the fact that her heart was breaking all over again mustered a loving smile. He didn't return it. As soon as he was out of sight, the smile dropped from her face and she looked all around her uneasily.

Would he keep his word and see her the next day?

She hoped so with all her heart.


	3. Chapter 3

When Grissom returned to his cell, he was angry. Angry with Sara for showing up unannounced and turning his carefully ordered world upside down, but angry with himself too for the way he'd reacted as soon as he'd suspected she'd come with ulterior motives. He wished he could have found the words to explain to her why he had cut himself off the way he had, but she'd put him on the spot and he'd panicked. How could he have verbalised how wretched he felt, how his guilt and his search for atonement and a sense of forgiveness fuelled his actions?

He thought he'd laid everything out in the letter he'd left with Brass for her. He thought he'd made everything clear, that denying himself her love, cutting himself off his life on the outside and not fighting for a lesser plea, was his penance and the only way he thought he could find some kind of redemption. He hated himself for putting her through more heartache, for walking out of the visit without even a goodbye the way he had done, but he'd had no choice. She had her own agenda, one he couldn't face, one he knew would clash with what he was trying to achieve.

If he could, he would return to the recreation yard and take his frustration out on the punching bag. But it was time for count, and he couldn't. As it was, he just paced around his cell restlessly, muttering, cursing. He stopped by his locker – maybe a little reading would still the racing thoughts in his head – but his hands shook too much and he couldn't undo the padlock. He took a breath, closed his eyes and rested his head against the cool metal, and tried to clear his mind.

When he felt calmer, he worked the combination on the padlock and opened the locker. He was reaching for his GED test preparation books when he felt her smiling at him from the corner of his eye. With a sigh, he took out the English textbook, paused and turned toward the photograph. Gently, he prised it off the locker door and took it and the book with him. Careful not to bang his head on the upper bunk frame, he slumped down onto the edge of his bed and stared at her blurring face.

Why didn't she tell him she was coming? Why didn't she give him a little warning, some time to prepare himself? Why didn't Jim? He could have put forward a better front and put some order in the chaos that was his mind; he could have hidden his shame and desperation better, his distress too, and not let his emotion dictate his actions and words as he had done.

She was hurt and angry and she wanted answers, and yet she hadn't once judged him; she hadn't condemned him, not for the awful crime he'd committed anyway, quite the opposite in fact. She'd shown him love and compassion, and pity too, which he couldn't cope with and certainly didn't deserve. Lying fully down onto the bed, he let out a long sigh and dried his eyes.

"They missed you at the library," Manuel said, stepping into the cell.

Startling, Grissom quickly turned away and wiped at his face.

"I saw Greenberg, and he gave me these for you."

Grissom glanced round. His back to him, Manuel was setting down a stack of papers on the table; English work for him to read over and correct. Manuel turned around, and Grissom quickly looked away.

"You're back early. The visit not go well?"

Grissom let out a long breath. "You can say that again."

"Bad news from home?"

Grissom turned a look of puzzlement toward Manuel, who merely shrugged his shoulders while nodding at Sara's photo on the bed.

"Soy más que una cara bonita," the young Hispanic replied with a cheeky grin – Not just a pretty face. Chuckling to himself, Manuel moved to the sink and looked at himself in the mirror, pretending to fluff up his hair despite the fact that his head was shaven under the folded bandanna.

Grissom gave a short, amused laugh and shifting on the bed picked up the photograph.

"You lucky it lasted as long as it did," Manuel remarked quietly, and Grissom refocused on him with a start. Still at the sink, the younger man pulled off the bandanna, turned the faucet on before bending forward and running his head under the water. "My girl dumped me first chance she got," he went on, when he finished. "Took the niños with her. Haven't seen them in three years." With a sigh he grabbed his towel, then turned to look at Grissom. "First thing I do when I come out is track them down."

Grissom's brow rose.

Manuel shrugged sheepishly. "You know what I mean."

"Actually, _I_ ended things with Sara—my wife—when I went down," Grissom said, turning his attention back to the photo.

"How come you still got the ring on then?"

Grissom's eyes lowered to his left hand.

"I don't get you, man," Manuel said in a chuckle.

Grissom scoffed. "Not many people do."

"But she does."

Grissom looked up at his cellmate with surprise.

Manuel's shoulder lifted. "She must do. She married you, right?"

Grissom's eyes lowered back to Sara's smiling face, and he sighed. There was a series of loud shouts coming from down the hall, and both men turned toward the noise with matching frown. Manuel moved to the open cell door to take a look, shrugged and then went to his locker. Grissom reached for his reading glasses from the table, put them on and after opening the English textbook at the right page began reading up for his next tutorial. His mind wasn't in it.

"I got mail today," Manuel announced matter-of-factly.

Grissom looked up once more, his gaze narrowing over the top of his glasses on the white envelope Manuel was clutching and the distinctive black lettering in the top left corner.

"Is it from the parole board?" he asked with immediate interest, putting the book down and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

Manuel's face broke into a grin, and without being invited he sat down next to Grissom.

"I think I understand it all," Manuel said, pulling legal documents out of the envelope. He was about to hand them to Grissom when he thought better of it. He unfolded the top letter and started to read it out loud. At first his reading was a little hesitant and stilted, Manuel stumbling on the longer judicial terms, but soon he got into his stride and proudly announced that he would be having a hearing in front of the parole board in six weeks' time.

"That's great news." Smiling widely, Grissom removed his glasses. "I'm happy for you," he said, patting Manuel on the shoulder.

"You did that, man, not me." Manuel's grin widened. "I'm going to see my babies again."

"Well, it's not a done deal."

Manuel tried to dampen his excitement, but in vain. "I know. I know. But you're going to keep helping me, right? Be my coach?"

His gaze averting, Grissom gave a nod.

Manuel jumped to his feet, slid the letter back in the envelope and put it away in his locker. "You coming to lunch?" he then asked, headed out of the cell.

Grissom shook his head and reopened the book. "I'm not hungry."

Manuel gave a nod before disappearing out of sight. Grissom stood up and slipping his glasses back on took a seat at the table. He'd prepare his lesson and do a little grading, that'd take his mind off things. The unit would be quieter now, for a while anyway, as most inmates headed to the dining room for lunch before moving on to their various afternoon occupations. Maybe agreeing to a second visit was a good thing, he thought then. He could prepare himself this time, put his mask on and allay all her fears. And then he'd try to explain why it would be best for everyone concerned if she didn't come to visit again.

The rest of the day went by in a blur, as most days did, because all things considered there was very little idle time to have when in jail. The system was designed to keep everyone busy, because if everyone was busy then they kept out of trouble. Well, mostly. But busy suited him just fine.

When he woke up the next day at 6 it was with a sense of purpose and excitement he hadn't felt in a very long time. He shaved with care then went about his early morning routine as usual. Time seemed to trickle past, but finally his name was called and he joined the line of inmates whose visitors were already waiting.

When, finally, he stepped into the visitation room, Sara was sitting at the same table as the previous day. Not looking as anxious as she had then, she broke into a wide, happy smile on seeing him. She'd let her hair dry into little waves, just the way he liked it, and wore jeans and a cream blouse that made her look younger than her forty-two years. She waited until he reached the table to stand and, without realising quite how, he found himself in her arms. Leaning her head against his, she wrapped her arms tightly around him.

The rush of love and relief was so intense that for a moment he forgot he was about to break her heart all over again and returned the embrace with all his might. It had been so long since he'd held her in his arms, and been held too; her touch was so loved and so missed that he forgot where he was. He knew that allowing himself this reprieve would only exacerbate his pain and feelings of loss and loneliness later on, but it felt so good right then that he didn't care. All too soon though, she pulled back from him and glancing toward one of the officers dutifully sat back down at the table.

"I told myself no more tears," she said, quickly wiping at a rogue tear, and gave him a wide smile.

Seeing her so strong, so full of spirit, love and resolve, took his breath away. All his carefully-worded openers flew out of his head, and he could only stare at her, speechless and rooted to the spot.

"I had plenty of time on my hands last night," she went on, unfazed by his behaviour, "so I read the rulebook. And we're allowed a brief hug at the start and at the end of each visit. I intend to claim both."

She held his gaze steadily and he found himself spellbound.

"You, sit down!" an officer called loudly, and refocusing suddenly Grissom moved to his side of the table and pulled out the chair.

"Thanks for…coming," she said quietly, her hand reaching for his on the table as soon as he had sat down.

Grissom gave her a soft smile. "You didn't think I would?"

She shrugged. "I had my reservations."

"Me too," he admitted uneasily. He flashed a nervous smile then lowered his gaze to their joined hands. He was about to ask whether the rulebook mentioned how long they were allowed to hold hands when she spoke.

"You don't know how much it means to me that you came," she said, and he looked back up.

"I'm sorry," they both said at the same time, and laughed.

"I'm sorry about yesterday," she went on, stealing the words right out of his mouth. She pulled her hand out of his grasp and tucked her hair behind her ear. "I just got…" Faltering, she blew out a breath, gave him a trembling smile. "I got overwhelmed and…probably – no, definitely – overwhelmed you in the process." She flicked her eyes away from his face. "It's just…You know how I get."

Grissom nodded his head. She was looking a little more uncertain now, and he wished he could make things easier for her. His hands clenched in front of him, wanting to reach out to her again, but he kept them to him.

"I've missed you so much, you know, over the months and…" she brushed at the tears pooling in the corners of her eyes, "I want you to know that what happened, and all the time we were apart, doesn't change the way I feel about you." Her tears spilled, and she took a breath, flashed a stiff smile. "I love you, Gil, and this…situation doesn't change that."

Moved by the candour of her words, Grissom felt tears build in his eyes. "And I love you too," he said at last, almost against his will. "I never stopped. But Sara—"

She held up her hand, stopping him in his tracks. "Please, let me talk. Let me say what I have to say, and then…" Leaving the rest of her sentence unsaid, she shrugged. "You got to understand where I'm coming from," she went on quietly. "I know I shouldn't have spoken to your attorney without you knowing, without your approval—I didn't mean to go behind your back and I am sorry I did, but what choice did I have when you won't talk to me?"

Grissom looked away.

"I read the court transcripts of the trial, Gil." His gaze snapped back to her face. "I know you feel guilty and you hate yourself for taking that woman's life. I'd feel the same if the roles were reversed." She blew out a breath, looked for words that seemingly wouldn't come. "I think I understand why you're doing what you're doing, punishing yourself the way you do."

"Sara—"

She met his gaze dead on. "No, just…just listen to me, please. You know I'm not judging you. There's nothing to judge. But don't you think you're maybe punishing yourself too harshly? Isn't being here, behind bars, enough?"

There was resolve in her eyes and, already knowing he wasn't going to like what she was going to say, he sighed.

"It's not just yourself you're punishing, Gil. You're punishing me and your mother too. And everybody else that cares about you. And that's not fair."

"But honey, don't you see? That's the only way I can live with myself and what I have done. The court's punishment is one thing, but it won't give me a clear conscience. I don't know what will, I don't know if I ever can get that back but I have to do what I need to do in order to get there. Being locked up as well as cutting myself off everything and everyone I hold dear is my penance for taking an innocent woman's life. Surely, you can understand that."

Sara was looking dumbfounded. She opened her mouth, only to shut it without speaking.

"You want the truth?" he said, his tone gaining in urgency. "I didn't tell you what happened, _couldn't_ bring myself to tell you what happened, because I'm ashamed. I'm deeply ashamed, Sara, of what I've done and I couldn't bear to see that shame reflected back at me."

"It wouldn't have been like that," she defended.

Grissom dismissed her words with a shake of the head. "More than that, Sara, if I'd told you, you'd have tried to make me change my plea, claim there were mitigating circumstances, but despite what you think there aren't. I'm guilty, Sara, of one of the worst crimes. I took someone's life, and by doing that I took that person away from their loved ones."

"Gil—" she said, her head shaking, as if wanting him to stop.

He made himself continue. "I ran a red light, broadsided a sedan, killing the woman passenger."

Her head was still shaking. "It was a mistake, Gil. You didn't set out to kill her. It was an accident."

"I was drunk, and I took the wheel. I made that choice. I knew what I was doing."

She blinked at the fresh tears in her eyes. "You weren't drunk."

"Okay, maybe I wasn't drunk, but I _had_ drunk."

"Still, you were below the limit."

"That is exactly what I'm talking about. You're making excuses for me, and I don't want you to."

Sara took in a deep breath she let out slowly, and then wiping at her eyes nodded her head. "Okay. Then I won't." She paused, let her words sink in. "I don't want to fight with you. I get that you got to do what you got to do to be at peace with yourself. I respect that. I don't agree with how you're doing it, but I respect your decision and I'll support you with it."

Grissom registered a look of surprise, these words of compliance the last thing he'd expected from her.

"I only hope the roles never get reversed," she added, holding his gaze steadily, "and that you don't ever have to be me in this situation." A sad smile crossed her face. "But I don't have any choice in the matter, do I? Either I…" she shrugged, "go along with what you're doing, or I don't get to see you at all."

Grissom let out along breath. "About that," he almost said, but she was making so much effort, making so many allowances for him that yet again the words didn't come. He averted his gaze, at a loss suddenly as to where to go from there.

"So," she said, her tone a little too bright for it not to be forced, when silence stretched between them, "tell me. You been working out?"

This sudden change of tack took him off guard. A slow smile grew on his face at the fact that she'd noticed. He raised his right arm, flexed his bicep. "Just a little boxing, you know. I've learnt a few moves. You got to be able to hold your own here, or at least be seen to be able to."

Her face darkened and she nodded her head that she understood.

"This place gets a bad rap, but my unit's not so bad," he went on, feeling the sudden need to assuage some of her fears as to his wellbeing. "I figured early on that if you just do what you're supposed to do and are reasonably nice to people, you'll do okay." He stroked at his nose. "That doesn't mean I haven't had any conflicts, but I haven't had many. Mostly people leave me alone." His shoulder lifted. "I've settled here. I've a routine, two jobs."

She smiled. "Only two, huh?"

"Two _paid_ jobs. The rest is voluntary."

Her smile broadened. "Let me guess. The library?"

He shrugged. "I get to have the best pick of the books. I do a bit of tutoring actually. That's my cover here. The guys think I was a teacher."

The look in Sara's eyes was earnest. "You were a teacher."

His smile fading, he nodded his head softly. Falling silent, they held each other's gazes for a moment before she told him about Vegas and work and the guys. She shared anecdotes, and despite his earlier misgivings he found that he was enjoying himself. He was going to broach the subject of not visiting again when straightening up Sara made to stand.

"I've brought money," she said, raising a clear plastic bag in his eye line, "for the vending machine." She pointed to the machines in the far corner, and he turned toward them, hadn't even noticed they were there. "The rulebook says we're allowed to use them. Well, _I'm_ allowed to use them with my money. You're not." Grissom turned back toward her. A smile tugging at her lips, she shrugged her shoulder. "So, I'm going to get myself a soda. You want anything?"

He was going to say no, that he was fine, when he thought better of it. "A Dr Pepper would be nice."

Her brow rose. "A Dr Pepper?"

Her look of surprise made him laugh. "Yes, a Dr Pepper."

She stared at him with disbelief.

His smile softened tenderly. "They don't sell them in the store. And besides, when's the last time we had one, huh?"

Sara's smile widened, and he knew that her thoughts had taken her to the same place his had moments before. She stared at him for a long time, a myriad of emotion passing through her eyes before finally pushing to her feet.

"Don't go anywhere," she said. "I'll be right back."


	4. Chapter 4

"No Dr Pepper I'm afraid," Sara said, depositing her bounty on the table, "So I got us a couple of Mountain Dews, and a little lunch while I was at it."

"Lunch?" Registering a look of surprise, Grissom looked up at the digital clock on the wall beyond.

"I hope you're hungry," she said, suddenly wary and hoping she hadn't moved too fast and made a mistake, "Because those wings aren't for me."

Grissom gave her a nod, and sitting down she pushed one of the bottles his way, as well as the box of chicken wings and a salad, keeping back the second salad she'd purchased. His hands twitched uncertainly in front of him, but eventually he reached for the bottle of Mountain Dew and unscrewed the top. Once again relaxing, Sara did the same.

"They feed us here, you know," he remarked, amusement in his voice.

She met his gaze dead on. "Too much?"

He laughed. "Maybe they'll allow a doggy bag."

She winced. They wouldn't be allowed a doggy bag, the rulebook made that clear. A visitor wasn't allowed to bring anything in with them, except for a clear plastic purse with no more than $20 in change to spend on the vending machines, or take anything out. The same applied to inmates.

"Or maybe not," he went on, good-humouredly.

His gaze saddened suddenly as he stared at her, and she flicked her eyes to her drink uncomfortably. She knew what he was thinking. That she'd lost weight and that she was more in need of the doggy bag than he was. Maybe now, he would realise how his disappearing act had affected her.

As she'd lain in bed in her motel room the previous evening, eating a take-out for one and reading the lengthy online prison visitation regulations, she'd promised herself to show a strong and determined front rather than the overwhelmed, slightly neurotic one she'd presented during the first visit. And so far, she was rather pleased with her performance.

She'd said what she'd set out to, what she'd carefully rehearsed, offering her support and acceptance of his choices despite her objections, and at last he'd begun opening up to her a little about his mental state and wellbeing. Brass was right though; apart from his feelings of guilt and wretchedness about what he had done, he seemed to have adjusted rather well to life in prison all things considered, at least on the surface, which was of some comfort to her.

They each took small sips of their drink. Grissom tried a chicken wing, while self-consciously she opened the salad box, freed the plastic fork and dressing from the hinged lid. She tried to make their impromptu picnic as inconspicuous as possible, but how could she when the setting was all wrong, when they were surrounded by tens and tens of people, talking too loudly, notwithstanding the correctional officers watching their every move, and there was no privacy whatsoever?

Grissom picked at the food, but he didn't seem any hungrier than she was. The moment grew awkward between them, and Sara wished it wasn't so. Getting the food when she had had been a mistake. She'd lost her momentum, the almost carefree atmosphere that had settled between them beforehand. She finished another mouthful, put her fork down and then took a sip of her drink. She was ready for phase two of the visit.

"I was thinking, huh…Is there anything you need?"

Grissom stopped mid-chew. "I'm okay. This is fine."

Sara flashed an uneasy smile. "No, I mean…like books, or toiletries. Money maybe?"

He frowned. "Money?"

"I can get money transferred into Western Union Bank for you. I read that—"

His face softened with understanding. "Thank you, but I'm fine. I have money. I earn money I can use. Enough for what I need."

Sara took a long breath. "I read you can buy all sorts. Maybe get yourself an MP3 player? Or maybe you've already got one."

"No."

"Why not?" she tried again, smiling softly. "I'd help pass the time. Besides, you could use that money to download music or…" she went for broke, "for email and phone calls." There she'd said it, broached the topic they'd been avoiding for over three hours. She hated the desperation in her voice, but couldn't help it.

His eyes averting, he put the unfinished chicken wing he'd been nibbling at in the box, reached for a paper napkin and wiped his hands and mouth with it. "I don't need anything, Sara. I don't want anything more than what I've got."

"Okay then," she went on earnestly, trying not to show her growing annoyance at his avoidance tactics, "what can I do? I feel so powerless to help you. There must be something you need, something I can do."

Grissom shook his head. "I'm fine."

His stubbornness, his unwillingness to make allowances for what she was going through, hurt her deeply. Ploughing on, she fought to keep her composure. "I want to help you, Gil. Let me help you, please. Let me be a part of your life."

"You _are_ a part of my life, Sara. A big part. You are what keeps me going. But—" Taking a breath, he flicked his gaze away from her and clenched his left hand into a fist, a tell-tale sign that he was growing frustrated again. "But—Sara, you said you understood. You said you respected what I was doing, that you'd support me with it. The way to support me, Sara, the way to help me, is to just let me…get on here." Pausing, he met and held her gaze levelly. "I don't want any contact. I don't want you to come visit me again."

Tears sprang to her eyes. "What about me?" she cried in a low whisper. "What about what _I_ want? What _I_ need to be able to cope?" Her tears spilled, and she brushed at them angrily. "Gil, please, don't cut me off again. I couldn't bear it." She took a fraught breath. "I need to be able to keep in touch. I need to know how you are."

"Maybe Jim—"

Her anger flared up again, returning with a vengeance. "No," she said, and shook her head resolutely. "I don't want to hear how you're doing from a third party. Oh, hi, Sara," she went on in a sad singsong voice, pretending to be Brass. "I heard from Gil last night. He got beat up, but he wanted you to know he's fine. So, don't worry about him!"

"Sara," Grissom cut in disparagingly, "it wouldn't be like that."

Sara's head was shaking. "You can't just suspend time, Gil," she said, her voice rising once again. "You can't just…put brackets around three years of your life – three years of _our_ lives – pretend that none of this happened and expect me to be fine with it." She raised her hand and waved it about their surroundings. "This – me being here – it isn't so bad, is it?"

He opened his mouth, but she spoke again before he could do so.

"It's not like I'd come every day. We're talking once a month, Gil. Twice, if you allow me to come two consecutive days like we've done this weekend. Don't I deserve that?"

"It's a three-thousand-mile round trip, Sara," he retorted heatedly. "The time off work, the expense, the wait for news, the wait until I come out, it's not a life. It's not the life I want for you."

"Oh, please. Not the for-your-own-good talk again."

He ignored her. "What if you make the trip and visits are cancelled, huh? What then?" He didn't give her time to reply before he added in an urgent whisper, "I hear stories, Sara. Visitors that drive six thousand miles sometimes, only to be told that they can't see their loved ones because the place is on lockdown. Or their name is not on the list because some pen pusher forgot to add it on. Or they're simply wearing the wrong clothes, or have got here too late in the day and they're not allowed in. Manuel's mother – she keeps four different outfits in the car just in case."

"Manuel?" she prompted with interest when he faltered. Despite the issue in hand, this was the first time he'd opened up, albeit involuntarily, about an aspect of his life she knew next to nothing about. Even though she was angry at him for yet again making decisions for her, she couldn't help rejoicing at the fact that this was the most animated he'd been the whole time, looking and sounding more like his old self trying to make a point. The old Gil was still there somewhere, and she just got to dig a little deeper to get to him.

Grissom fell quiet, as if realising he'd shared too much. His gaze flicked down, and slowly, deliberately playing for time, he closed the box of chicken wings. She watched him with growing panic at the thought that just like the previous day he was about to put a premature end to the visit. How could he be so cruel a second time? How could things go so wrong between them so quickly? Loath to have to be the one to back down again, Sara stood her ground and waited with bated breath.

He looked up and finally met her gaze, and she took in and let out a long breath of relief at the resignation she saw in his eyes. It was almost as if a switch had been flicked, and he'd realised he couldn't keep his prison life separate from her. "My cellmate," he explained in a calmer voice, and swallowed. "His name is Manuel. He's been here four years. He looked out for me at the start, and…I guess now we look out for each other."

Sara moved her hand to the middle of the table, reaching for his. "I don't want to fight with you, Gil. I mean that." Her gaze turned beseeching. "But I _want_ —I _need_ to be part of your life right now. Not just in a year's time when you come out."

He let out a long breath. "Okay," he said eventually.

Sara's breath caught in her throat. Did he just agree to her visiting him? She'd hoped for contact of some sorts, and she'd never though in a million years he'd agree to more and regular visits.

"We can compromise," he then said, "find a middle ground. I'll write."

Her heart sank. "You'll write."

He was looking pleased with himself. "Yes, I'll write letters. That way, I can give you news directly."

"Directly, huh?" She gave a bitter smile. "You know how it works. You write a letter that goes to some prison office and gets put in a tray, let's say for a couple of days, then eventually gets read and censored and then put into another tray for mailing, and then into a sack..." A smile grew on his lips as she spoke, a smile she couldn't help returning. "You know where I'm going with this, right?"

"I think I have a pretty good idea, yes."

Sara sighed, then stared at him intently, silently pleading with him for more.

"I have email," he said reluctantly.

Her smile returned. "I know. And access to a phone."

His ears pricking suddenly, he stared at her at length, and she knew he was thinking back to the anonymous call he'd put through to her that night when she'd found out the truth of his whereabouts, the call she'd picked up only to be met with a breathless gasp and deadly silence that had given the game away.

He gave her a slow nod, then sighed resignedly at the new understanding they'd now reached. Why did it have to be so hard to get him to admit he needed that contact and interaction between them as much as she did?

"Okay," he said, more forcefully this time. "I'll email and then you'll have my address and you can email back. I can't promise how regularly I'll be able to do that though. The system's poor, and every email we send and receive gets checked. Also, we're 1500 plus inmates in here, with not nearly enough computers. And when they do work computer time is scarce, and expensive."

"I'll take whatever you can give me."

"And remember," he went on earnestly, "if I don't reply – or you don't hear from me – it's not necessarily because I don't want to but because for some reason I can't. And it doesn't have to be something sinister either, like I got beat up or put into the hole. It could be that the email is slow. The system gets overwhelmed and sometimes it takes days to clear the backlog. But we get put on lockdown too. Often. Sometimes for an hour, sometimes days. A couple of weeks once, that's been the longest since I've been here. Email and phone call privileges are the first things to go **.** No visits, no calls, no emails, no jobs, no time in the yard, no nothing. You get to stay locked up all day long with nothing to do but think."

Sara reached for his hand again, and this time he took it.

"I don't want you checking your email every five minutes, Sara, worrying about me and what may or may not have happened."

"I get that. I totally get that." Smiling, she gave his hand a warm squeeze. "And I don't want you to worry about me either, you know, if I don't reply straightaway." She'd aimed for a light tone, but Grissom's returning smile was sad, and she knew that asking him not to worry was as futile as asking her not to worry about him.

"You said you wanted to help me, right?" he then said.

She nodded her head uncertainly.

"Then, there's one thing I need you to do for me."

"Anything."

He gave a nod, and then paused, as if choosing his words carefully. "I want you to mend fences with Jim. I want you to forgive him what he did."

Sara's gaze averted.

"You and him are friends, Sara, more than friends, and I hate the fact that my actions have caused a rift between you."

"He made a choice."

"No, Sara. He didn't have a choice to make. I didn't give him a choice. Either he did what I asked, or I didn't keep in touch."

"We both know you wouldn't have done that."

He smiled. "You're right. I wouldn't have done that, but he couldn't be sure."

Sara sighed. "You needed him to keep an eye on me and on your mother, and report back to you."

It was his turn to avert his gaze.

"Well, now, you can get news directly, and I get to have my husband back."

His gaze snapped back to her sad one, and taking a deep breath he reached for her hand again and squeezed it warmly. She'd claimed a small victory, and she hoped it was the first of many. It didn't seem like much, but to her contact with him was everything, and maybe with time and by being patient and not too demanding, he'd grant her another visit and maybe even more. Conscious that their time together was coming to an end, Sara asked about Manuel again, but made sure to keep the mood light so as to keep the experience a positive one.

When it was time to leave and the visitation room began to empty, they pushed to their feet a little uncertainly. The moment was awkward, and it was hard for Sara to hide her heartache, but the hug Grissom initiated and she returned with all her might was nothing but loving and heartfelt.

"You take good care of yourself," he said into her hair, his voice thick with emotion, and too choked up she could only repeat the sentiment. They exchanged words of love and a chaste kiss on the lips, and when they couldn't delay their parting any longer for the officer rushing him away, she made herself stay strong and smile, if only to show him that if they ever were to repeat the experience she'd cope.

After going through the metal detector and having her hand checked for the invisible ink stamp that marked her as visitor for that day, she retrieved her purse and jacket from the locker and walked out into the hot Texan sun. Reaching for her sunglasses from her purse, she slipped them on and made her way across two parking lots to her rental car. Only when she sat behind the wheel did she let her silent tears fall. She felt exhausted, yet buoyed up with hope and excitement. She'd come with nothing, but had left with the promise of more to come, and despite their dire circumstances that was more than she'd ever hoped for.

Without wasting time, she negotiated the Kia Rio down the one-way system out of the vast prison complex and then north onto West Port Arthur Road, headed to her motel on the outskirts of the city of Beaumont. There, she took a shower, put on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and retrieved the copy of the court transcripts of Grissom's trial she had made. Once she was satisfied she had located what she was looking for, she sat down cross-legged in the middle of the bed, connected her iPad to the motel's Wi-Fi, checked her email even though she knew it would be far too soon for Grissom to have got a message to her, and then went online to do a little research **.**

Twenty minutes later, she had a name, an address in Port Arthur and a phone number.

She fished her cell out of her purse and paused, uncertain suddenly as to whether she was doing the right thing arranging a meeting. Once again she'd be going behind Grissom's back, but what choice did she have when he wouldn't help himself? She was flying back to Vegas the next day, and then it'd be too late. No, she had to do it while she was in town so they could talk face to face rather than on the phone. Refusing to talk with her would also be harder to do if she showed up on the doorstep than on the phone.

Turning on her cell, she scooted up the bed so she had her back against the headboard and connected a call to DB. Her supervisor picked up on the second ring. "Oh, Sara, I was just thinking about you. How is it going?"

She smiled. "Good actually. Much better than I anticipated."

"So, you got to see Gil then?"

"I did, and we talked and…" she laughed a little uneasily, "well, we've…come to an understanding."

"Oh, that's great, Sara."

"I mean, it's early days yet, but you know…"

"It's a start," he filled in when she broke off. "I'm so happy for you." His care and concern was so genuine, so heartfelt that tears built in her eyes. He paused. "So, this call…you need more time off, do you?"

"Just an extra day, if it's still okay with you."

"It's fine, Sara. I told you. You take as long as you need."

"Thank you."

"So, huh," DB said when silence built on the line, "will you be seeing Grissom again tomorrow?"

"Actually no." She was about to share her plans with him when she thought better of it. "I just thought I'd…I don't know…take in some of the sights."

"Okay," DB said after a beat, sounding somewhat dubious, but it didn't matter; she'd explain to him when she got back to Vegas.

She and DB spoke a little longer and then she hung up. After calling her airline company to change her flight and extending her car rental agreement, she logged back into her email – still nothing from Grissom – and sent Nick a quick message, telling him about her change of plans. Then she paused, hesitating, and thought of Grissom stuck behind bars.

Was she prepared to jeopardise what little progress they'd made so far, risk his shutting himself off a second time and deny her any further contact?

Putting aside the last of her reservations, she made the call.


	5. Chapter 5

"Manuel, stop watching me," Grissom barked gruffly, without looking at his cellmate.

It was 5.50pm, and Grissom was lying on his side on his bed staring unseeingly at the concrete wall. He'd skipped dinner, and in ten minutes there would be count after which he was due to start work. As well as tending to the prison grounds five mornings a week, he tutored three groups of fifteen inmates studying for their GED in English in the evenings. But tonight he wouldn't go. He didn't feel like it, couldn't muster the fake gusto and energy required to teach a bunch of hardened criminals the finer points of the English language.

He just wanted to be left alone. Unfortunately, sharing a prison cell didn't lend itself to that. Most of the time he was fine with sharing such confined space with Manuel, the young Hispanic was low maintenance and they'd reached an understanding pretty early on in the proceedings; but there were times – times like these when he felt at his lowest, when his feelings of shame and self-blame were at their highest – when he felt crowded both in and out, the space lacking in the cell or in his head.

"Go to work," he said, softening his tone, "or you'll get written up."

"And you won't?"

Manuel sighed, then moved about the cell restlessly before finally shutting his locker with a bang. And then silence at last, or as much silence as Grissom was going to get in the unit at this time of the day anyway. Thinking himself alone he finally closed his eyes and let his silent tears fall. He just felt so very tired. He hated himself for being so weak, but he couldn't help it. At least, he'd managed to hold it together in front of Sara, put up a good front that had hopefully put her mind at rest and eased the worst of her fears.

He said what she'd wanted to hear, had agreed to her demands for more contact, showing enough reluctance that she would believe he'd meant it. And maybe he had, but at that moment in time he didn't think he could ever make contact. He'd made such a mess of everything. More tears fell, unwanted and unbidden, and he wiped at them angrily, his feeling of guilt and wretchedness unrelenting. Having Sara visit, having her understanding and support, only served to remind him of how he'd screwed up his life, of how unworthy he was of her love and forgiveness.

But maybe now she wouldn't feel the need to go snooping behind his back anymore, looking for a way to get him out of this hell earlier than he deserved. She said she would respect his wishes, and he had to believe she meant it. Hearing a noise, and then movement inside the cell, he stiffened, then immediately on alert glanced over his shoulder to make sure the visit was friend rather than foe. It was Manuel, and judging by the helpless look on his face, he'd been witness to Grissom's moment of weakness. Letting out a long breath, Grissom turned back to the wall.

"I'm not going," Manuel said, sitting down at the edge of Grissom's bed.

"What do you mean you're not going?" Grissom said, his tone overly brusque and harsh to cover his disarray.

"I can't leave you like this, man," the younger man replied, clearly exasperated. "What's wrong with you?"

Clamping his jaw shut, Grissom turned further away.

Manuel jumped to his feet. "Come on," he tried, his tone lighter and coaxing. "Get up and get your stuff ready. There's still time."

"Tell them I'm sick."

"But you're not, are you?"

Again, Grissom kept quiet.

"What happened, huh? You've been like this ever since you got back."

Growing impatient with Manuel's probing, Grissom shifted himself around awkwardly on the narrow bed. "Nothing happened, alright?" He waved his hand toward the door. "So, go on. Go. Leave me alone."

Manuel shook his head. "I'm staying here."

"Manuel, will you stop it? Go before they find you missing, or there won't be a hearing in front of the parole board, that's for sure."

Manuel rubbed his hands up and down his thighs nervously, clearly hesitating. "Grissom, man, don't do this to me. I'm going to call a CO."

"No!"

Manuel moved to the cell door, looked out both ways. "Riley's on duty today. He'll get the nurse to come."

Grissom knew Officer Riley wouldn't, but the thought was nice nonetheless, even if he was too wrapped up in his own negativity to appreciate it. "There's nothing wrong with me."

"Isn't there?" Manuel retorted heatedly, turning around and holding Grissom's watery eyes dead on.

Turning away, Grissom let out a short sigh.

Manuel covered the distance to Grissom again, his heavily tattooed hand touching the older man's shoulder, a hand Grissom jerked off tetchily. "I've seen this before, Grissom. It's not good."

"Manuel, quit the nagging," Grissom exclaimed impatiently, too loudly, for immediately he checked the cell door. "You're not my mother. Or my wife."

A look of hurt crossed Manuel's face. A buzzer sounded in the distance, causing Manuel's ears to prick. He moved toward the cell door, looked out again agitatedly but didn't leave. He radiated nervous energy, clearly at a loss as to what to do. He pushed off the door frame, and bouncing back into the cell started pacing restlessly.

"I've seen it before," he said again, stopping outside his locker and banging his fist on the door. "Inside these walls, and not with a good outcome."

Manuel had his faults, but aggressiveness wasn't one of them, and Grissom realised then that he was the cause of it. "Seen what before?" he asked a little more calmly, but he had a pretty good idea Manuel was talking about depression and suicide.

"Nothing," Manuel replied, his head shaking. He clenched his hands into fists, then clambered up to the top bed, causing the whole bunk to shake.

"What are you doing now?" Grissom asked exasperatedly.

"I told you. I'm not leaving you alone."

Grissom let out a long breath. "Manuel, don't be stupid." He got up off the bed so he could look at Manuel as he spoke. "I haven't done all that goddamn work putting all that stuff together for you for nothing. So, get your ass down from up there, and get to work!"

A smile formed, twitching satisfyingly at Manuel's lips. He seemed pleased with the fact that he'd riled Grissom up. "Not without you," he insisted, holding Grissom's gaze steadily, daringly.

Sighing, Grissom looked away.

"We're in this shit together, remember? I know you feel crap about yourself and about what you've done, but hey, join the club. You're not the only one with regrets."

He turned back toward Manuel. "You didn't kill anyone."

"Not directly, no. But people died 'cause of me, because of the crap I dealt them. If I could go back in time I'd do everything different, but that's not going to happen. So…here I am doing time, serving _my_ time for the crimes that I've done. After that, I can start again and turn my life around."

"It's not as easy as that."

Manuel shrugged. "Either you keep your head down, work hard and make the right decisions to change your future, or you don't."

Grissom smiled despite himself. "You don't want to listen to everything I say. I talk a lot of…garbage."

"No, man. You talk a lot of sense." A wide smile broke across Manuel's face, revealing his missing tooth. "Most of the time."

"Ortega! Grissom! What are you two dings playing at?"

Startled, Grissom looked over at the officer standing at the door, while Manuel jumped down off his bed. Riley took a look at Grissom, then refocusing on Manuel indicated with a curt jerk of the head for him to beat it.

"Those floors aren't going to mop themselves," he said.

Manuel opened his mouth to argue, but one rise of the officer's brow stopped him in his tracks, and with one last long look at Grissom he complied. Grissom moved over to the sink, turned the faucet on and splashed his face and neck with water.

"What's up with you, Grissom?" Officer Riley asked, when reaching for the towel Grissom turned back toward him. "You're sick?"

Grissom proceeded to dry himself. "No."

There was a pause. "Is it the visit earlier?"

Grissom looked up sharply. Turning away without replying, he put the towel away and slipped his feet into his shoes.

"You get nothing for thirteen months and then two visits in a row. Doesn't take a genius to figure it out. I've been here a long time. Sometimes contact with the outside world is the best thing. Sometimes not. You want to talk to someone about it?"

"Someone?"

"Your counsellor."

Grissom's smile was wry. "No."

Riley had a moment's pause. Then moving closer, he lowered his voice to a whisper. "Do you want to make a call, check how things are at home?"

Grissom looked at Riley dead in the eye. "No. I told you. I'm fine." He reached for his books from his locker and stepped past the officer, headed out.

"And hurry up," Riley shouted as Grissom walked away, "or I'll write you up myself and have your pay and privileges docked."

That night Grissom set his students a practice question, so he could just sit at a table pretending to be watching them while his thoughts wandered. Despite his criminal record attesting to the opposite, Manuel was a good kid who through lack of guidance early on in life had got in with the wrong crowd and made some poor life choices. He reminded him of Warrick in a lot of ways, and Grissom wished Manuel didn't look up to him so much, because he wasn't such a good role model anymore.

With a sigh, he got up from his seat and paced around the small room. He looked over his pupils' shoulders, checking their work, helping a few out with spellings and syntax. Being forced to go about his evening ritual, being made to feel like he made a small difference, did him good. He was still feeling low, but his mind was quieter, the demons once again silenced. He thought of Sara then, beautiful Sara, who had overcome her own heartache and feelings of betrayal and so readily forgiven him.

She'd taken time off work and come all this way, taken yet another chance on him, without even knowing if he would agree to see her. He was glad he had, for her wellbeing but also his own. Because she was right. He would have hated it if the roles were reversed and he knew he would have moved heaven and earth just to keep contact and stop her from sinking in the abyss he currently found himself in. But then again, if the roles were reversed, Sara would never have cut him out of her life, not like he had done.

Tears formed in his eyes, tears he quickly, self-consciously, blinked away. After the lesson, the hour or so until lockup at 8pm was his to do as he pleased. Sometimes he went to the games room and played chess, or cards, but not tonight. Back in the empty cell he grabbed a pen, his GED book and the test papers the students had sat during the lesson, a few sheets of plain paper and Sara's photograph, and took everything to bed with him.

Sitting across the bed with his back against the wall and his glasses on, he started grading the papers. After a while, his mind drifted back to Sara **.** He reached for her picture and tracing over her face imagined her in some local hotel room eating a take-out for one in front of the television. The image brought back his melancholy. He'd never even thought to ask where she was staying.

Taking a clean sheet of paper, he began to pen a letter to her. And then he started another one, and another, the only constant the opening line of 'My darling Sara'. Because every draft he started ended up either too glib and deliberately upbeat and fake, or was the truth and too full of self-pity and self-loathing. He was staring at her picture again, searching for inspiration, when a tall African American inmate he'd had few dealings with himself but had heard about from Manuel, strolled into the cell. A powerful jolt of adrenaline shot through him.

In his mid-to-late thirties, the man was so tall and broad that he seemed to fill the space. A fairly recent transfer to Beaumont medium, he pulled out the stool from under the table and, moving it to Grissom's bedside, straddled it with his back to the door. Glancing at the open cell door, Grissom wondered at his chances of a quick escape if necessary. And then out of the blue he feared for Manuel's safety, and wondered whether his lateness so near lockup didn't have anything to do with this unexpected visit.

Covering his sudden dread, Grissom calmly closed the book, trapping Sara's photograph and his many drafts of letters he wouldn't be sending her between the pages, and slipped off his glasses. "What can I do for you, Armstrong, is it?" he asked, playing it cool.

Armstrong looked over his shoulder, seemingly checking the coast was clear, and then back to Grissom. He scratched at his nose, then shrugged, as if his being there was an everyday occurrence. "I hear you're a discreet man," he said, keeping his voice low and not quite meeting Grissom's wary gaze, "and that you…provide certain services."

Grissom's brow arched. "Depends," he said.

"It's all legit," Armstrong said, clearly anticipating Grissom's next words. "But I don't want word getting out."

Armstrong had obviously done his homework, as indeed Grissom provided many services as long as they kept within the law. Those gave him a little power inside and a reputation as someone to go to for legal advice, which meant that most of the time he, and Manuel by extension, were left alone. Despite the way business was done on the inside, Grissom would never deliberately compromise his integrity. He'd rather take a beating, than have to do that. He had enough on his conscience already.

Armstrong looked over his shoulder again, then reached into his sweat pants pocket and pulled out a folded-up-into-a-small-rectangle sheet of paper. He tossed it at Grissom, who after putting on his glasses again slowly began unfolding it. "I want you to rewrite this," he said as Grissom read over the letter, "Make it better. Make it so I get what I want."

Grissom knew that refusing wasn't an option, not if he wanted to carry on as he had for the last year. Displaying as cool an exterior as Armstrong, Grissom looked up. Armstrong stared at him straight in the eye, his threat unvoiced but clearly there.

"I can't guarantee anything," he said. "I'll argue your case, but I won't lie."

Armstrong gave a nod; he looked like he'd been expecting it. "Two macks, alright?"

Grissom frowned in puzzlement.

"Three?"

This time, Grissom shook his head. "I don't know what you've heard but—"

"Four, and that's as much of the stuff I've got right now."

Grissom paused. "Two macks, and four books of first class stamps."

Armstrong broke into a grin and shook his head vehemently. "Nah. I can't do that."

Grissom made himself hold Armstrong's gaze. "Two macks, and three books of stamps. And that's non-negotiable."

Armstrong's eyes narrowed, and just when Grissom thought he would refuse Armstrong burst out laughing. "Damn you man, you drive a hard bargain. You better be good for it."

Grissom kept his poker face in place. "I'm good for it."

Armstrong gave another nod, then once again checked his back before reaching into another pocket and removing two small pouches of macks - preserved mackerel fillets - legal tender in the prison community and readily available to purchase from the commissary. The one-dollar tag was a hefty price to pay, though, considering inmates earned a maximum of forty cents for an hour's work. Grissom's currency of choice was stamps, also readily available to buy from the prison store and by far the most widely used payment method overall.

Bartering and stockpiling were both illegal though, and if you got caught doing it you ran the risk of being sent to the Special Housing Unit - the hole - or lose credit accumulated for good behaviour. Grissom didn't mind either. To survive in this place, he had learned early on to play by a set of strict prison rules, the written but also, and maybe more importantly, the unwritten ones.

Glancing over his shoulder, Armstrong handed the two pouches of mackerel to Grissom as down payment. "I'll give you the stamps on delivery."

Nodding, Grissom quickly spirited the pouches away. The payment system worked as long as everyone kept to their side of the bargain, and he knew Armstrong would keep to his word. "It'll be ready tomorrow. Meet me in the chow hall at the end of lunch."

Armstrong nodded, cracked his knuckles and then standing up tidied the stool away. Just as quietly as he'd appeared he was gone. Grissom let out a long breath, then rubbed his face wearily and checked the time again, worried about Manuel's unusual tardiness. It was almost lockup time when Manuel finally returned. Grissom looked up from his work, frowned. Manuel didn't talk or make eye contact; he simply climbed up to the top bunk.

"You okay?" Grissom asked, removing his glasses. When he got no reply, he got off the bed to check on his cellmate. Manuel was turned onto his side, facing the concrete wall. "What happened?"

"Nada. Déjame solo."

"Oh, we're speaking Spanish now?" He glanced to the open door, kept his voice to a whisper as he spoke. "Manuel, please, look at me."

Manuel sighed, then slowly shifted round on the bed. His eyes were closed, but a bruise was already forming around his left one. Grissom winced, then wordlessly grabbed his towel, ran a corner of it under the cold tap and squeezed out the excess water. If Armstrong was behind this...

"Hold this against your eye," he said, handing the makeshift icepack to Manuel, "it'll help with the swelling."

Manuel took the towel and pressed it against his eye.

"What happened?" Grissom asked again. "Was it Armstrong?"

Manuel opened his good eye. "Armstrong? No. Why?"

"No reason."

Manuel stared at Grissom for a beat before closing his eye again. A buzzer sounded, and a minute later their cell door slid shut and locked. Grissom reached into his pocket and took out the two pouches of mackerel, tossed them onto the bed in front of Manuel. The slow smile that spread on Manuel's face as he caught sight of the items soon morphed into a grimace. A question formed in his one eye.

"To say thanks for earlier."

Manuel smiled again and then winced in pain.

"So, you going to tell me?" Grissom insisted.

Manuel sighed. "A dispute over the TV. If the screws ask, I did it boxing."

Head shaking, Grissom clambered onto his bed again. He put on his glasses, picked up his pen and resumed redrafting Armstrong's letter.

"Grissom?" came a quiet, introspective voice from the top bunk.

He paused. "Yes."

"You feeling better?"

He smiled. "Yeah. I am."

"Good."

And it was true; he was feeling better. And when two hours later the lights dimmed for the night, he was already fast asleep with his glasses still on and Sara's photograph in his hand on his heart.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: This chapter turned out a lot longer than I anticipated. I hope it still reads well.

A little later than billed, but I hope you're having a nice Holiday all the same. And happy New Year 2017!

* * *

Sara turned off Diamond Road and slowly drove down Mimosa Street, diligently checking house numbers until she pulled up outside number 3234. A grey Honda Odyssey minivan was parked in the driveway, no other car, which surprised Sara who wouldn't have expected a man Mr Martinez's age to drive a minivan. The yard was small, but tidy and mainly grass, dry and patchy in places. The ranch house had seen better days with the painted-over woodwork peeling, showing a layer of green under the newer blue.

She hesitated before cutting the engine, once again wondering if she was doing the right thing. Going behind Grissom's back was one thing – if the visit came to nothing, he never needed to know – but the man she'd spoken to on the phone had sounded old and frail and she didn't want to upset him further than she was sure he already was. Her visit would be opening wounds that were still very fresh, especially as she didn't quite know what it was she was trying to achieve in meeting with him.

She'd fallen asleep the previous night atop the bed covers with the television on and her iPad in her hand, only to wake in the early hours cold and disoriented. She'd lain in the dark, thinking about Grissom and about how much she missed him. He still hadn't written, but then again she didn't expect he'd have access to email in the middle of the night.

Restless, she'd retrieved the letter she'd written him, the one she would have posted to him if he'd refused to see her. Carefully, she slipped her finger in the gap on the sealed envelope, tore it open and read the letter again. She'd been so angry when she'd written it, so full of resentment and recrimination, so full of accusation too, and she was glad now she'd kept it.

He was so down already; he didn't need her misery on top of his. Besides, her feelings had changed. Without hesitation, she tore up the letter, reached for the writing paper she'd purchased that first night in Beaumont and wrote him a brand-new letter. She needed him to understand that she was there to stay, that no amount of keeping her away would work.

Looking through her purse, she found the newest picture of the two of them she kept with her and stared at the photograph for a long moment, her smile a little sad and melancholy at the happy memories it evoked. Greg had taken the picture at her fortieth birthday party – well, more a dinner than a party.

Nick, Jim and Catherine had been there too, and Grissom had cooked for everyone. With his arm around her shoulders, he was looking flushed and happy as smiling he stared straight at the camera while Sara stood with her face turned toward him. With tears in her eyes, she'd put the letter and photograph in an envelope she'd carefully addressed and then mailed that morning.

The early afternoon sun was beating down on the car, and she wiped at the sweat beading on her brow. After checking the address on the slip of paper one last time, she smoothed down her hair, grabbed her purse and got out of the car. The heat was unrelenting. At the house, she opened the screen door, and after a moment's pause rapped her knuckles to the frame.

When there was no reply, she knocked a second time, a little louder this time, then took off her sunglasses and willed her racing heart to calm. She was about to knock a third and final time when she heard approaching footsteps. Lowering her hand, she smoothed down her clothes and plastered a smile on her face. A lock turned.

The door opened only slightly, showing a petite woman of about Sara's age, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. She wore little make-up and her dyed blond hair cut short. She didn't speak; she just looked at Sara, and for a split second Sara wondered whether she had the right address. As far as she knew Mr Martinez lived alone, but there was something about the woman's probing stare as she stood there that told Sara she hadn't made a mistake.

"Oh, hi," Sara said, her smile fading under such intense and very obvious scrutiny. "My name is Sara Grissom. I'm—"

"I know who you are."

The tone of voice, as brusque and hostile as the woman's stance and closed-off expression, caught Sara off guard. Her smile vanishing altogether, she took a hard swallow. "I…spoke to Mr Martinez on the phone last night and—"

"You've got some nerve showing up here," the woman said in an urgent whisper, quickly glancing over her shoulder. "What do you want?"

Sara opened her mouth, searched for words that wouldn't come. Again she swallowed. "I just want to talk."

"Talk?" the woman exclaimed with obvious disbelief. "What is there to talk about? My mother's dead. No amount of talking will bring her back."

Again Sara opened her mouth, but all that came out was a long breath. There was so much hurt in the woman's eyes, so much hate. "I'm sorry," she said at last. "I'm very sorry for your loss, Mrs…?"

"Baker. Marisa Baker."

Sara nodded. "I know what it's like to lose a loved one. I know how tough it is, but—"

Opening the door a little wider, Marisa raised a hand, stopping Sara in her tracks. "Don't. Save it for someone who cares." She took a short breath. "Why have you come now, huh, when we're just about coming to terms with everything?"

Sara paused, hesitating. "Is Mr Martinez here please?" She looked past the woman, but couldn't make anything out through the darkened lobby. "Could I maybe speak with him? When we talked on the phone last night, he said that—"

"My father's not well."

Sara nodded. "I'm very sorry to hear that."

"I don't want him more upset than he already is. Your call really shook him up. Brought everything back for him."

Sara cast her eyes down. "Please?" she tried again, her voice a beseeching whisper. "I promise I won't be long."

"He's taking a nap. I don't want to wake him."

"I understand." Sara glanced toward her car. "I'll wait in the car. It's no trouble. I'll wait for as long as it takes. It's just that…Well, I'm flying back to Las Vegas tomorrow and..." She paused, tried to hide her growing disarray. "Could you please tell him I'm here when he wakes? I just want to…speak with him. I just want to understand. I promise I won't—"

"What is it you don't understand?" Marisa countered harshly, her voice growing louder. "Your husband drove straight through a red light, colliding with my parents' car, killing my mother."

"It was an accident," Sara defended quietly.

"He had drunk. And drink-driving is taken very seriously in the State of Texas."

"He made a mistake, and he took responsibility from the start. I'm not trying to make excuses for what happened. I just—"

Mr Martinez's daughter looked over her shoulder suddenly, and stopping short Sara followed the woman's gaze. Again she couldn't make anything out, but she heard a voice and shuffling footsteps. With a sigh, Marisa opened the door wider before stepping back to make way to a small and very thin man. The man looked at his daughter, then straight at Sara with bright, piercing eyes that revealed a sharp mind despite the frail exterior.

"Mr Martinez," Sara said. "I'm Sara Grissom. We spoke on the phone last night?"

The old man nodded his head, then glanced at his daughter from the corner of his eyes. "Come in, please. Come in. I was expecting you. I'm sorry…I must have dozed off."

Marisa threw her father a dark look, but taking no notice Sara walked past her, following the old man to the air-conditioned front room.

"I don't know why you came all this way," the old man said, dropping clumsily down into a battered armchair. "There's nothing I can tell you that you don't already know."

"Well, that's the thing, Mr Martinez," Sara replied with a sad smile, feeling tears rise suddenly. "I don't know anything about what happened."

A look of surprise registered on the old man's face. "How do you mean?" he asked, frowning.

Sara shrugged, licked her lips nervously. "Gil was working away from home when the…crash happened. He didn't tell me about it. In fact, I didn't even know he was in prison until I found out by chance a few weeks ago. He just broke off all contact with everyone. Didn't even tell his mother. She still doesn't know. She thinks he's working in Peru."

Head shaking in disbelief, Mr Martinez caught his daughter's eyes and reached out a trembling hand she gave a warm squeeze to. "But why would he do such a thing?"

Sara gave a wry laugh. "He said it was to…protect us, but I think—no, I _know_ it was out of shame. He's feeling tremendous guilt and shame for what he did."

"And so he should," Marisa said, but with less animosity than before.

"My husband is a good man," she defended, turning her attention to Marisa. "Yes, he made a mistake, one he regrets deeply. But he took responsibility for that, and from the start."

Mr Martinez held up a weak hand, stopping her. "Mrs Grissom—"

"Sara."

"Sit down, please," the old man said softly, waving his hand toward the faded couch, and stowing her purse by her feet Sara complied. "Would you like something to drink?"

"I'm fine, but thank you."

Mr Martinez looked over at his daughter. "Marisa, would you get me a glass of water please?"

Marisa narrowed her eyes at her father quizzically, but disappeared through to the adjoining kitchen anyway.

"I hope Marisa didn't give you a hard time," the old man said in a whisper Sara was at pains to make out. "She doesn't mean any harm, but Paula's death was hard on her. Well, it was hard on all of us, but particularly on Marisa. They were very close."

Sara nodded, mustered a stiff smile, and then smoothed down her dress pants uneasily. "As I said on the phone yesterday, I'm not here to cause problems."

Mr Martinez nodded his head slowly. Looking away, he took a few shallow breaths before refocusing on her, and she could see that Marisa hadn't been lying when she'd said that her father was unwell. She just hoped the accident wasn't the cause of the man's ill-health. Before Sara could speak again, Marisa returned with a glass of water she placed on a coaster on a side table she moved within her father's reach.

"Sara, I know he took responsibility for the accident," Mr Martinez said, after taking a sip of water. "I know how sorry he feels. He showed remorse right from the start. Never, ever tried to shift blame, or play down his part in the crash and that clearly against the advice of his attorney. I was grateful for that. We all were. It made everything so much easier for us."

Sara hadn't expected any different. "Gil isn't doing well, Mr Martinez. When I visited him yesterday he was depressed, very down on himself. He just…won't forgive himself, and I don't seem to be able to get through to him. Maybe he'd listen to you. Maybe—"

"No, no, no," Marisa interrupted, her head shaking vehemently. "That's out of the question."

"I already tried," Mr Martinez told Sara, cutting short his daughter.

"You what?" Marisa exclaimed with disbelief.

Mr Martinez looked at his daughter and sighed. "I wrote to him."

"When? And why didn't you tell me?"

"It was a few months after the trial, last September maybe? I don't remember. And I didn't tell you because I knew you'd disapprove." He turned back to Sara, considered her with kindly eyes. "I wrote to your husband in prison, asking if I could go and see him. I wanted to thank him—"

"Thank him?" Marisa cried out. "Thank him for killing mom? Are you out of your mind?"

Mr Martinez let out a long breath, looked at his daughter with tears in his eyes. "No." He swallowed, then averted his eyes to his lap before looking back up resolutely. "Mr Grissom paid for your mother's funeral, Marisa. I wanted to thank him for that."

Marisa's head was shaking. "No. That wasn't him, dad. You're confused. His insurance company paid for everything. He didn't."

"No, Marisa. _He_ did. Through his attorney, but with his own money."

Sara frowned; this was news to her.

And to Marisa too, by the looks of it, who was staring at her father with utter disbelief. "And you let him?"

"I didn't have a choice."

"Of course you had a choice. Dad, there's always a choice."

"We didn't have the money, Marisa. How do you think it was all paid for, huh? All those flowers? Those beautiful white roses…" Mr Martinez shook his head before flicking his eyes to Sara. "I didn't want his money at first, but he sent a cheque through his attorney. It was like he knew exactly how much it would cost."

"He would have researched it," Sara said in a whisper, and then she thought of Warrick's funeral he'd helped organise and pay for.

"Yeah, well, it was too little too late," Marisa spat. "Money to appease his conscience, that's all."

"No," Sara said quietly, her head shaking, "Gil isn't like that."

"And maybe it was," the old man told his daughter, "but it was money we didn't have. Money we needed."

"The insurance company would have covered it."

"Eventually, but you know how long these things take. And I wanted your mother at peace."

Tears in her eyes, Marisa crossed her arms and turned away toward the window.

"And what happened after you wrote to Gil?" Sara asked softly. "Did he write back? Did you get to see him?"

Mr Martinez gave a slow shake of the head. "He never wrote back, and no, I never went to see him."

Sara gave a small smile, nodded her head and then averted her gaze uncomfortably. "He's cut himself off everything and everyone completely. Even now, he won't speak to me or let me help him."

"And why should we help you?" Marisa asked, turning around suddenly, refocusing Sara. "Because that's what you're after, isn't it? Our help? Why should we help your husband after all the pain and heartache he's caused my family? He put us through hell this last year." She crossed over to her father, and perching down onto the arm of the armchair dropped a protective hand on his shoulder. "My father never recovered – physically but emotionally too."

Sara realised then that under different circumstances she'd agree with everything Marisa was saying; she'd be on their side condemning with everything she got the drunk driver who had taken their loved one from them. She thought back to the case file that had brought up Grissom's fingerprint, thought back to the little girl who had lost her mother and the husband who had lost his wife.

Resigned, she nodded her head, offered Marisa a soft smile. "You're right," she said. "And if the roles were reversed, I'd feel exactly the same way you do." She gave a sad, empty laugh. "But I had to give it a try, for Gil's sake."

"Does he know you're here?" Mr Martinez asked.

Sara shook her head softly. "He would be very angry if he knew I went behind his back like this. But I didn't know what else to do. I still don't." She paused, then with a sigh picked up her purse and pushed to her feet. "I won't take up any more of your time. Thank you again for seeing me."

Marisa stood up to show her out.

"I'm sorry if my coming upset you both," she told her. "That wasn't my intention. I lost my father when I was very young. I know how tough it is." She turned toward the old man whose unfocussed eyes were staring at a point in the middle distance. Taking a tentative step toward him, she touched a gentle hand to his shoulder. "Thank you."

Mr Martinez didn't respond. Straightening, she looked over to Marisa who stood stiffly with her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Without meeting Sara's gaze, she turned away and moved to the door.

"I don't remember anything at all about the accident," Mr Martinez rasped weakly, unexpectedly, causing both Sara and Marisa to stop in their tracks and turn toward him with surprise. He was still staring unseeingly at a point in front of him, as if lost in memory. He looked up then, slowly refocusing watery eyes on Sara. "I never saw your husband's car coming. If I had, maybe…" The words dying on his lips, he let out a long breath. "One minute we were driving home from Marisa's, and the next I was waking up in hospital."

Tears in her eyes, Marisa walked up to him, while looking down to his lap he lifted a shaky hand and wiped a knobbly knuckle under his eyes. "You say he is a good man, and I believe you. I know he tried everything to save us. He was injured himself, you see, I think it was his leg, maybe some broken ribs, but he called 911, then somehow got me and Paula out of the burning car. He did CPR on me."

Tears filled Sara's eyes as Mr Martinez spoke. She knew all that already, but hearing it spoken aloud brought home what it must have been like for Grissom in the aftermath of the accident – how much pain and suffering he must have been in, physically but emotionally too.

The old man faltered briefly, his next words a barely audible whisper. "Paula, well, she was already gone. I'd be dead too without your husband's swift actions, that's what the doctors at the hospital said anyway, and sometimes I wish I was. But mostly I'm grateful." He reached for his daughter's hand and smiled. "I've got my family round me, my grandchildren. I can see them grow. I'm Paula's eyes and heart in this world."

Mr Martinez stopped talking, took a few breaths then looked to a point beyond Sara. Automatically, her gaze followed his, and she saw a framed picture of a couple on their wedding day, then another one showing several generations of the same family. Sara took a step closer to the shelf, stared at the faded wedding picture with interest.

"That's me and Paula on our wedding day," the old man said needlessly. "May, eighteenth, 1964."

Sara turned around sharply, forced a trembling smile.

"We would have been married fifty years this month," Mr Martinez said, voicing her very thought.

Nodding her head, Sara looked away. Mr Martinez made to push to his feet and Marisa helped him up. Together, they moved to the shelf and the old man picked up the photograph with a shaky hand, stared at it at length before putting it back. He paused.

"Marisa, sweetie, in my bedside drawer, there's a letter. In a blue envelope. Can you get it for me please?"

Marisa hesitated, but holding her gaze steadily Mr Martinez nodded his head and she disappeared out of the room. The old man returned to the armchair while Sara remained standing uncertainly. He held out his hand to her, and moving forward hesitantly she took it.

"Sit down please," he then instructed softly. "There's something I want to show you before you go."

Puzzled, Sara did as bid.

"You said you wanted to understand. I think maybe what I have will help you to."

Sara forced a smile, then watched as returning Marisa handed her father the letter. It was clear from the expression on Marisa's face that she hadn't known of the letter's existence. Even from a distance, Sara immediately recognised Grissom's handwriting on the envelope. Her eyes snapped back to the old man's face quizzically. Her heart was racing.

"Your husband got this to me while I was in hospital," he said, handing the letter over to her.

Her hands shaking, Sara took it and slid the single sheet of paper out of the envelope.

 _Dear Sir,_ she read.

 _I wish I could have spoken to you face to face but my attorney advised me against it. I have already apologised to you and your family publicly in court, but I would like to tell you personally how very sorry I am for what I have done._

 _I have deprived you of a wonderful wife and your family of a loving mother and grandmother. Words cannot express the regret and deep sorrow I feel about that._

 _I have no excuses. I fully am to blame. I would give anything to change what happened that night and bring your wife back. But I know I can't._

 _I am not writing to ask for your forgiveness. I don't deserve it, but I want you to know that I will never forget or forgive myself._

 _I wish I had died that night instead of your wife. I wish it had been me._

 _Sincerely yours,_

 _Gil Grissom._

When she looked up from the handwritten note, Sara had tears running down her face. She wiped them away.

"Your husband blames himself for Paula's death," Mr Martinez said, "and rightly so. But he believes he isn't worthy of forgiveness, and that's not true. What happened changed him as a person – it changed all of us," he added meaningfully and it was clear he was including Sara in the statement, "and he needs to learn to live with who he is now and what he has done. That's not going to be easy. And first, he has to forgive himself."

"And if he can't?" Sara asked, after a moment's pause.

The old man gave her a smile. "He has to, or he won't be able to move forward with his life."

Sara nodded her head slowly. "You seem to know a lot about it."

Mr Martinez pondered his reply. "I go to a victim support group once a week. I didn't cause the crash, but I was involved. I was at the wheel. I feel guilt too, guilt I'm learning to live with." He reached out a weak hand to Sara's leg and patted warmly. "It's going to take time and patience, but with your love and support he'll get there."

"I hope so."


	7. Chapter 7

Grissom enjoyed tending to the prison grounds for two hours five mornings a week. Although the modern buildings and tall double fence cast a foreboding pall over him, thanks to inmate labour and irrigation from the nearby Hillebrandt Bayou the grounds themselves were remarkably green. The work allowed him to be outdoors, in the sun and open space, away from the crowds and constant noise and bustle. He found the experience therapeutic, the required focus much needed to ease his troubled mind.

Once he was given his orders, he could just get on. Mowing, pruning, straightening of the borders and edges, he didn't mind, even if his knees did. The machinery they used was old, the graft hard, but he relished the physical challenge. It made him feel good about himself. There was no talking, no interacting, just mindless work and undisturbed peace and quiet. Every so often, an insect would come into his focus or a bird would land nearby and he'd stop for a moment and watch the creature with interest, marvelling at its carefree ways, at why it would choose to alight in such a grim place.

It was already Friday, almost a week since Sara's visit, and he still hadn't emailed her, had not even taken the necessary steps to have her address approved so it could be added to his CorrLinks account, the official fee-based email system used within the prison. He had no excuse; he had plenty of money on his account and he couldn't even blame an ill-timed lockdown. But what could he tell her that she hadn't seen for herself? His life was so mundane, so routine. Reiterate not to worry, that he was doing well? Hey, just another twelve months, hang in there?

He'd gone to the computer room once, had waited in line for his turn and when some fifteen minutes later had finally managed to log on, he had found no email waiting, not even one from the BOP. He had hoped Brass would have written and given him some news, a quick mention that Sara had got back to Vegas safely, or a forwarded message from his mother whom he'd written to a couple of weeks ago but surprisingly hadn't heard back from yet. He was about to send Brass a quick email when he stopped, logged off the computer and gave his place to the next inmate waiting in line.

But that morning, as he pushed the mower, the sweat trickling down his brow and back, his mind was elsewhere. When the previous day he'd checked the daily call-out sheet on the unit's bulletin board he'd seen he was scheduled to see the unit's correctional counsellor at two pm the next day. The timing of the meeting struck him as odd, but it was mandatory and so he had no choice but to go.

He'd only seen the counsellor a handful of times since he'd been at Beaumont med, the first time within seven days of arriving when he'd been given 'guidance' and explained the prison rules. Psychological assessments to help determine appropriate courses of treatment had been performed too, work assignment and education courses to follow – or not as the case was with Grissom – given.

Each unit had one counsellor only, which meant that, unless an inmate specifically requested a meeting, scheduled appointments were sporadic at best. Unless you were nearing the end of your sentence, which Grissom wasn't. For most inmates, the counsellor provided a useful service, but wary and suspicious of having his every move, his every thought, tracked and recorded, Grissom kept away as much as he could. Not that it made much of a difference, as his movements were tracked anyway whether he liked it or not.

When two pm came, Grissom stood outside the counsellor's office staring at the _Dr D. R. Walker, Correctional Counsellor_ door nameplate for a good two minutes before he finally knocked. A sharp "Come in" followed, and Grissom gingerly turned the handle, letting himself into the small darkened office. He cast his eye around the room, noting the rows upon rows of books and box files filling the wall shelves, stifling a wry smile on noticing the two black balls housing surveillance cameras at the corners of the ceiling.

"Ah, Grissom," Counsellor Walker said jovially, "Right on time. Come in and sit down."

Grissom closed the door behind him and nervously did as bid, while Walker remained seated behind his cluttered desk. In his late forties, the counsellor was a short and portly man with kind eyes but a stern mouth. He wore a checked shirt which strained slightly over his stomach, no tie, and badly crumpled dark pants.

"Everything alright for you?"

Grissom narrowed his eyes. "What is this meeting about?" he asked, getting straight to the point. "I didn't ask to see you."

Walker smiled widely. "Indeed, you did not."

Grissom thought back to his altercation with Manuel Officer Riley had walked in on when he was feeling down after Sara's visit. "Did Riley set this up?"

Walker frowned. "No. Correctional Officer Riley did not put in a request." Watching Grissom closely, he leaned back in his chair. "Why? Should he have done?"

"No."

" _I_ initiated the meeting," Walker said after a beat, keeping his tone light and pleasant, "which I'm perfectly within my rights to do. So, now that we have that cleared up, would you like for us to talk about something in particular?"

"No."

Walker sat forward in his chair. "Relax. This is just a progress review, alright? Just to see how you're doing. We haven't spoken in many months and it was overdue. Looking at your case history, you seem to be coping well with prison life."

"I'm doing fine," Grissom said, with a confident nod.

Walker didn't speak for a moment, as if waiting for Grissom to expand on his answer. When Grissom didn't, he sat forward and glanced at his computer screen. "Says here you had a visitor come at the weekend."

Wondering where the counsellor was going with this new approach, Grissom straightened in his chair and frowned. He suspected that the statement, seemingly anodyne, was nothing but. The visit would have been recorded in detail in Grissom's file, so why ask about it? He was being tested; how he replied was key.

Folding his hands across his lap, Grissom put forward as cool and composed an exterior as he could. "My wife came to see me."

"Sara, isn't it?" Walker prompted encouragingly.

Grissom gave a hesitant nod.

"And how did the visits go?"

"They went well."

Walker seemed surprised at the statement. "I understand your wife initiated the contact. Pulled a few strings to be able to see you."

Grissom averted his gaze.

"Would you like to add her onto your list of approved visitors?"

Feeling himself cornered, Grissom looked back up sharply. "No," he replied quietly.

"No?" the counsellor countered gently, inquisitively.

"No." Grissom sighed, used his left hand to scratch at the bristle of his right cheek. "I—Sara and I talked about it, and we decided that it was in everybody's best interests if she didn't visit anymore."

Walker's eyebrow rose in interest. "Is that so? What I'd like to know is why…it took her so long to come," he went on in the same measured tone when Grissom made no attempts to reply. "I mean, she obviously knows the right people. So," Walker opened his hands and shrugged, "why wait so long, huh? She didn't come all this way to deliver bad news, did she?"

"No."

Again Walker waited for Grissom to expand, but in vain. "Just let me know if the…situation changes and I will have her name put on your list," he then said, reached for his pen and holding Grissom's gaze steadily paused. "Why don't I do that anyway? She wouldn't need to know unless you told her."

Grissom's eyes narrowed suspiciously. It was as if the counsellor was playing a game, or knew more than he was letting on, with Grissom two steps behind and unable to catch up. He didn't like having his hand forced, but what choice did he have but to agree if he didn't want to reveal the real reason for Sara's visit? She was his wife after all, and as his wife, in the counsellor's eyes anyway, she had a right to visit. Giving a lengthy sigh, he finally acquiesced with a nod.

"Good." Walker leaned forward and scribbled a quick note onto a pad on the desk.

And then a thought occurred to him, one he didn't much like the sound of. "Did she call you?" he asked suddenly. "Sara, I mean, my wife. Could she do that? Call you directly without my knowing?"

"Indeed she could, but she didn't. And I wouldn't – _couldn't_ – tell her anything specific without your signing a release authorising me to do so anyway. So, relax, will you? But there's one thing I need you to understand. Part of my remit is to facilitate contact between inmates and the outside world so as to support successful reintegration and make re-entry into society as smooth as possible. And that's as important as supporting you while you're here, if not more."

Walker paused, but Grissom didn't take the bait and so he flashed a quick smile and pushed on. "Now, I know Sara's already on your phone list, but have you considered email? You might find email easier to handle. You can compose a message in advance, and that way things don't get too painful and emotional, or awkward, like they can when talking on the phone."

Once again, Grissom remained quiet. Guilt at the chord the counsellor had just struck made him avert his eyes.

"Listen Grissom, you hardly spend any money in Commissary, just for toiletries and such likes," the counsellor said a little impatiently, refocussing Grissom. "You don't get mail; you don't have any magazine or newspaper subscriptions, nothing. You don't have visitors. You have one name on your email list, two on your phone one. You know you're allowed up to one hundred active contacts, right? I did mention that to you when you first came. I'm sure I did. Captain Brass of the LVPD whom you contact fairly regularly and your wife at home, who you call less but often enough for me to know you care, are your only contacts. Your calls home are never longer than a minute. By my reckoning, that's long enough for the answerphone to kick in but not long enough to leave a message. It's almost as if you call when you know she's not going to pick up."

Walker's tirade instead of snapping Grissom out of his stupor had the opposite effect. Grissom couldn't even muster the gumption to be angry. He just sat there, watching Walker with disbelief. Was he that transparent? "Big Brother's watching you, that's for sure," he said in a tone devoid of amusement.

"It's everywhere." Clearly frustrated by Grissom's apathy, Walker sighed. "You're a man used to being in control. And incarceration took that away from you. As well as your dignity."

"The crash did that."

Walker acknowledged Grissom's point with a nod. "You want to retain some control over your life and that's natural, but in here if you play by the rules – which you choose to do – you can't, and that's hard to come to terms with. In here, everything's decided for you. The only control you have is over your thoughts and emotions," he tapped a flat hand to his chest twice, "over how you feel inside. And now, _Sara_ turns up out of the blue and demands a share of what little control you have over your life."

Grissom's growing tension threatened to turn to anger. "Your computer tell you all that?"

Walker smiled pacifyingly. "No. I know how tough it is for you to be in here," he added, raising a hand to stop Grissom when he was about to object. "I've been a correctional counsellor for over twenty years. I've dealt with thousands and thousands of inmates, all in the same boat as you. I know what I'm talking about." Grissom lowered his gaze. "It's tough for you in here, but it's equally as tough, if not tougher, for the ones that are left behind. Think about that, and what it means for your wife, your mother, your friends, not to have contact with you."

Looking up sharply, Grissom opened his mouth to protest, but then shook his head resignedly. "Do all the inmates in your care receive such thorough treatment?"

Walker laughed. "No. Only the decent ones, the ones who are paying an expensive price for one mistake they've made."

Grissom huffed. "At least you didn't call it an accident."

Walker's expression turned serious again. "Would you like to talk about it?"

"No."

"Now's your chance. I'm all ears."

"I'm fine."

"I know you said you didn't want to talk to a priest, or join one of the religious groups, but we have many other types of support groups in here. Maybe you'd like to join one that could…help you deal with your feelings of…guilt?"

Grissom scoffed.

"It's only natural to be feeling the way you do, especially after what you've done and because you have such a strong moral compass. You took a life, and there's no easy way to come to terms with that."

"I'm dealing with it."

Walker held Grissom's gaze levelly. "Are you?"

"Yes. I just…don't find it easy voicing it all out loud, that's all."

"You're not the only one, believe me. But you could learn."

"I'll think about it."

Walker's smile was knowing. "If you don't want to talk, maybe you'd be more amenable to listening."

Grissom's eye narrowed warily. Just when he thought he was getting a measure of the counsellor the latter threw him a curve ball. "How do you mean?"

"You're an educated man. You know exactly what I'm doing here, the games I'm playing, and the only reason I have the upper hand right now is because we're not on a level playing field."

"I think you overestimate me."

"I disagree. Just hear me out, will you?" Walker paused, then let out a long breath. "How would you feel about leading a counselling session once a week?"

"What?"

"You know how short-staffed we are. There aren't enough counsellors to go around. I thought maybe once a week for an hour you could sit in on one of the groups and be me. You'd be doing me a favour, to tell you the truth."

"But I just told you—"

"You wouldn't have to do much at all, certainly not _talk_. Not much anyway. You just sit there, give each inmate a turn, an opportunity to talk about…whatever, share their experience with the group. Think of it as an experiment," he went on fervently. "All you'd have to do is what I do. Display an air of authority and keep order. And with your level of education and background in law-enforcement, that should be second nature. Besides, there'd be a correctional officer in the room at all times if all hell broke loose."

Grissom was finding it harder and harder to curb his feelings of anger and frustration. He felt like a puppet on a string, manipulated and guided by an invisible but very clever hand. "Do I have a choice?"

"Of course. You do a lot already anyway with the classes you teach. I just thought since you're respected in the unit—"

"I don't know about that."

Walker held Grissom's gaze levelly. "I do. Think of it as one more positive to add to your case when you apply for transfer."

Panic set in at the word. "Transfer? But I don't want to move."

Walker registered a look of surprise. "How do you mean? As soon as your security classification gets downgraded – and provided things stay as they are it will – you can request a transfer to a minimum-security institution closer to home. You'd be playing with a totally different set of rules there. Isn't that what you're working so hard toward?"

"You can't force me to leave," Grissom said, pushing to his feet.

Walker's frown deepened. "You're right; we can't. Not before you've served seventeen months anyway, but that's coming up very soon."

Grissom gave his head a shake. "I'm…not ready to...leave here."

"May I ask why?"

He shrugged a gruff shoulder.

"You've not been incarcerated nearly long enough to be institutionalised yet. So, what is it you're scared of?" And when no reply was forthcoming, "All this," the counsellor went on, waving a hand about the place, clearly encompassing the whole prison setting, "is leading and preparing you for _one_ thing – life on the outside."

"I get that," Grissom said, "But I have over a year left to my sentence. I'm settled here. I've made friends."

"You've made _a_ friend. Manuel Ortega, your cellie, who, as I understand it, is due in front of the parole board soon. He's got a chance, Grissom, to make it out of here earlier than he should, and that thanks to your help and guidance. You've been a good role model to him, but do you think for one second that he will hesitate to turn his back on this place?" Walker gave a long sigh. "Changes are afoot, Grissom, better get used to it. I'm sorry; I didn't mean to upset you."

Grissom shuffled his feet uneasily. "You haven't."

"Okay," Walker said easily, picking up his pen and leaning forward on his chair before making a note on his pad, "I'll schedule another meeting for, let's say, two months' time. We can talk about it again then, see if your feelings have changed. You can't hide in here forever, you know. At some point, you're going to have to face the past, in order to move on with your future." He paused, watched Grissom with soft eyes. "But I've preached enough for one day. And, gee, look at the time. You'd better go or you'll be late for count."

And just like that he was dismissed. Dazed and confused, he remained stood there, rooted to the spot a beat too long. Everything seemed to be unravelling at too fast a speed for him to be able to cope. Sara's visit had set in motion a course of events that threatened to destroy whatever sanctuary he had managed to create for himself within those four walls. He was turning toward the door when Walker spoke again.

"Oh, and make sure you get your mail."

Grissom's ears pricked up. Something in the counsellor's tone of voice suggested that this meeting had been carefully, and very successfully, orchestrated, building up to that last comment. "What mail?" he asked tiredly. "You said so yourself; I don't get any."

"Well, today you do. And if not today, then Monday, hey?"

Post wasn't delivered until four pm at the earliest on a weekday, and as it was Friday if he didn't get the letter today then he'd have to wait until Monday. It had to be from Sara. Who else? He should have known she wouldn't have waited for him to make the first move, and that despite her protestations using snail mail would be better for her than nothing.

He made it back to his cell in time for count. Manuel was already there, reading some magazine, looking restless and giddy. Craving some time alone but knowing he wasn't going to get any, Grissom made straight for the sink. He washed his hands and face, then cupped his hand under the faucet and drank thirstily from it.

"There you are, where you been?" Manuel said, jumping off the top bunk. "I got something for you."

Reaching for his towel, Grissom wearily turned around.

A wide grin on his face, Manuel waved an envelope in the air in front of him. "This one's for me," he said, "but these, amigo, are for you." He made to smell the letters he'd just produced from behind his back, but Grissom snatched them out of his hand before Manuel could do so.

A smile instinctively formed on his lips on seeing who they were from, dispelling the heaviness in his head.

It wasn't one letter from Sara, but two.


	8. Chapter 8

Dressed in cut-off jeans and a tee-shirt, Sara plugged her iPod in the docking station, put it on Shuffle mode and turned the sound down low. She closed the blinds, turned on the side lamp and went to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of red wine she had a quick sip of and took back to the lounge. Carefully, she set it down on the cluttered coffee table, and tying her hair back in a ponytail sat down cross-legged on the sofa with the coffee table pulled up close.

On it, she had that day's Las Vegas Sun, Grissom's local newspaper of choice, a copy of the Journal of Insect Science that had come in the post for him months ago, some scissors, sticky notes and a pen. It was Sunday evening and her first shift off since she'd got back from visiting Grissom in prison. In between work and sleep, chores and using what little time left for writing to him, she'd barely had any time to sit down to catch her breath and truly take stock of the situation.

He still hadn't made contact, and with the benefit of hindsight she realised she should have known he wouldn't. When she'd spoken to him, she'd failed to comprehend just how deeply he hated himself for what he had done, but talking to Mr Martinez and his daughter had opened her eyes to what hell he'd gone through during and after the accident, and what hell he was still going through now. His feelings of guilt and shame ran very deep and weren't to be taken lightly and just brushed aside.

He needed help learning to cope, proper professional counselling, and if he was hell-bent on not seeking it, she herself was ill-equipped to provide it **.** She hadn't lied to Mr Martinez when she'd told him she didn't know how to help Grissom. She genuinely didn't. But writing to him as she was doing would hopefully not only show that she still cared deeply, but also that she would wait patiently for his release. She wouldn't rush him, or make demands of him; she would just use correspondence to keep contact.

On her return, she'd been desperate to contact Betty, pay her a visit and give her news of her son, who she suspected she must miss terribly and worry about. What kind of excuses must Grissom have to make in his emails in order to explain his lack of visits back to the US? Tears filled her eyes yet again at the unfairness of it all, but she didn't feel so angry anymore, just resigned and terribly anxious about his wellbeing. How he'd managed to survive for so long, cut off from everyone and the outside world, she didn't know, but she hoped that what contact she could give him now would be uplifting of his mood and ease some of his pain too.

It was hard knowing what to write when doing it on an almost daily basis; there was only so many times you could say the same things before they started losing some of their impact. And so, she'd taken to sending him clippings from magazines and newspapers, articles she thought would be of interest to him, comic strips she hoped would make him laugh.

She added little notes to them, captions and annotations, some witty, others not so much. The second letter she'd written him hadn't been a letter at all in fact, but an article from the New York Times that had caught her eye when she'd been browsing at the airport store waiting for her flight home. As an afterthought, she'd also included the crosswords page. He could always toss it in the trash if he wasn't interested.

This little ritual allowed her some alone time with him. She needed that contact with him for herself, even if he claimed he didn't need or want it. It alleviated her feelings of loneliness and separation, and gave her something concrete to do to try to lighten his load. Although he was thousands of miles away, she felt she was sharing a small part of her day with him, even if they weren't sharing in the experience together or at the same time.

She wished she could include more, but wary of moving too fast she kept the letters short and the tone light and upbeat. She was careful what information she included, in case it was censored or fell in the wrong hands and gave the idea that Grissom was in any way linked to law-enforcement. She stayed away from all the gloom and doom of the news too.

She was cutting out Mike Smith's satirical cartoon from the Sun when the doorbell rang. Her ears pricking, she paused in her tracks and frowned. She wasn't expecting anyone, and it was too late for a delivery. She was going to ignore it when the bell rang again, more forcefully this time. With a sigh of annoyance, she carefully extracted herself from all the pages and clippings around her, and rubbing her sore neck and shoulders padded to the door. Looking through the peephole, she sighed again. Brass stood there, looking straight at her.

"I know you're there, Sara," he said quietly through the door. "Please? I just want to spend a little time with my friend."

A smile forming, she shook her head before unbolting and opening the door.

Casually dressed in jeans and a faded New Jersey sweater with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, Brass was carrying two pizza boxes. "I come bearing gifts," he said with an easy shrug.

Her smile widened. "Veggie combo?"

He gave a nod. "With extra mushroom."

Her stomach chose this moment to grumble, and they laughed. And just like that they were back on an even keel.

"You're in luck," she said, opening the door wider to let him in, "I think I got a couple of beers left in the fridge." She walked over to the coffee table and picked up her half empty wine glass she lifted in the air in a question. "Unless you'd rather a glass of wine with your pizza?"

"No," he laughed. "A beer'd be great." Pausing, he gave a nod toward the messy couch. "You were busy. I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

Her smile faded. "No. I—I was…It's nothing I can't carry on with later." She turned back toward him. "You mind if we sit in the kitchen?"

"Sure."

They moved next door, and while Brass set the pizzas on the counter Sara grabbed a beer from the fridge.

"Why don't we go sit out back?" he suggested, taking the bottle of Miller from Sara and twisting the cap off. "It's a nice evening."

Sara smiled, nodded her head. "The key's in the end drawer over there."

While Sara gathered some plates, Brass found the key and pushing aside the sheer curtain unlocked the sliding doors. He went out, and she heard him move about the patio, removing the protective covers from the table and chairs. The patio furniture hadn't been cleaned in a long time, but she knew Brass wouldn't mind a little dust. She topped up her wine, and together they finished setting up their impromptu picnic. The sun was setting, and its residual warmth, much less intense than it had been throughout the day, was pleasant, almost soothing.

She took in a deep breath and closing her eyes turned her face up toward the evening sky. She couldn't remember the last time she'd sat out there, and for the first time in many weeks, months even, she felt herself relax a little. They ate and drank and chatted easily about various cases they were working on. When the conversation faded, a companionable silence settled between them. Neither mentioned Grissom, but somehow it felt as though he was there, sharing in this moment with them.

The breeze, still warm and pleasant a half-hour ago, had cooled considerably now that the sun had fully set, and she repressed a shiver. She thought about going in to get a sweater and turn on the outside lights, but the enveloping darkness felt comfortable and she didn't. At night-time, the incessant chatter of the cicadas always seemed to intensify, and then was no exception. Once again, her thoughts drifted to Grissom and she smiled **.**

Apaches, she remembered him saying these particular cicadas were called one evening soon after they'd moved into the house, and that this unofficial soundtrack of summers in Las Vegas was in fact a love serenade. "If you're really good — and I'm not," he'd told her, "You can tell the species apart by the sound." Her smile faded, and she felt her chest tighten as a wave of sadness washed over her.

"Did you know," she asked, addressing Brass quietly, "that the buzz of a single cicada can carry up to a quarter of a mile?"

She opened her eyes and turned toward him, and smiling at her softly he shook his head. Feeling herself well up, she cast her gaze to the dark beyond and wondered whether there were cicadas in Texas, and if there were, whether their song penetrated the thick prison walls all to the way to Grissom's cell. Did the cells at the prison have windows, she wondered then, so he could see the night sky, the stars and moon?

"I wish I had a backyard like this one," Brass said, breaking the silence as he helped himself to another slice of Meat Feast.

Sara scanned her eyes over the small Japanese style garden and smiled. When she and Grissom had bought the house, they'd fallen in love with how pretty but low maintenance it was. When Grissom was home, he'd always have breakfast ready for her when she finished work and they'd eat it out there, leisurely reading the day's paper. When getting lost in her memories, she didn't reply, Brass spoke again.

"How are you?" he asked, his tone heartfelt and sincere, and a soft smile on her lips she refocused.

She liked the fact that Grissom hadn't been the very first thing that Brass had enquired about. Whether it was because he was worried of upsetting the balance so soon after they'd mended fences or because he'd spoken to the man himself and knew all about the visit, Sara didn't know. But it didn't matter. She knew he cared about her and she was grateful for his presence. With Brass, she didn't have to pretend. He was the only person she could really open up to about this, and she knew that in her own time she would. The wine was working its magic too.

"I'm okay," she replied at last, reaching for her glass. "I'm doing okay. Better than before I left to see Gil, that's for sure."

Brass raised his beer at her. "I'll drink to that."

She took a quick sip of wine, then put the glass down and picked the mushroom out of the remaining pizza slices. "You're lucky you found me in actually," she said, chewing. "It's my first night off since I got back."

"I know." He winced sheepishly. "I checked the roster." He finished his mouthful, wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. "You seem…calmer. Less angry at…the world."

The caution in his words made her smile. "At you?"

Brass acknowledged her query with an easy shrug.

"Well…I guess I've passed the point of anger."

"Yeah?"

"I've moved on to acceptance. I'm just feeling very numb, and incredibly sad."

Brass gave a thoughtful nod. "So, the visit with Gil," he went on carefully, "it went well."

Sara let out long sigh. "I don't know. If you'd asked me a week ago, I'd have said yes. But now? I'm not so sure. I wish I'd done things differently, not said some of the things I said, and vice versa."

"Don't second guess yourself. He had to be expecting that you'd want answers, that you'd be hurt and angry with him."

Sara made a dubious sound.

"How is he?"

Brass's question gave her pause. "You haven't heard from him?" she asked with surprise.

"No. Which in itself isn't unusual, but I don't know, I was kind of expecting him to call and rant and tell me how pissed he was, you know…" he gave an uneasy laugh, "mainly for not letting him know you were coming."

Sara's smile was sad. "I haven't heard from him either."

"Maybe they're on lockdown."

"They're not. I checked."

Brass frowned. "But you said—I thought…" Faltering, he stared at her with puzzlement, and she shrugged a helpless shoulder. "What a stubborn ass," he muttered, his head shaking in disbelief.

"I worry about him, Jim," she went on. "What if my visiting him made things worse for him? I mean, he put on a good show when I saw him, and we talked, a little, but…" She took in and let out a long breath. "It was horrible seeing him in this place, a shadow of his former self. It was exactly what he was trying to save me from by not telling me."

Brass's disbelief made way to concern. "Would you rather still not know?"

"No," she defended categorically. "No, of course not, but he's not doing well. On the surface, he gives the impression that he is, that he's adapted to his routine, to this life behind bars, and maybe he has, but inside he's lost. He's broken, Jim, and in so much pain."

"That's to be expected, but with time he'll get there."

"Not on his own, he won't." She wiped at a tear. "He wrote a letter to Roberto Martinez. He's—"

"I know who he is. I went to visit him during the trial when he was in hospital. He seemed a nice man."

Sara smiled, nodded her head. "He was very nice to me when I went to see him."

"You went to see the family?"

Sara flicked her eyes away. "I had to, Jim. Gil wouldn't tell me anything and there's so much I didn't understand. Still don't."

"Does Gil know?"

She snapped her gaze back to Brass. "No. And it must stay that way, for now anyway."

Brass gave a nod, showing he understood. "The letter he wrote to Mr Martinez," he went on quietly. "He wanted to apologize personally."

"I know. I read the letter, Jim. In it, he wrote something that broke my heart." Tears filled her eyes again, and she brushed them away. "He wrote that he wished he'd died that day," she said, her voice breaking. "And I think he really meant it."

Brass sighed and pondered his reply for some time. "I'm sure he did. I'm sure he did mean it at the time, but Sara, the accident was still so fresh, so raw. It's only natural for someone like Gil to feel that way. Wouldn't you, if you knew your poor judgement had killed someone?"

Sara opened her mouth, only to shut it despondently. "I wish—I wish he could let me in, you know? I wish he trusted me enough to confide in me and let me help."

"Give him time. It's only been a week."

"I miss him so much. I don't know how I'm going to survive this next year until he comes out – especially as things stand between us."

Brass moved his chair closer to her and reached for her hand.

"I want him here, now, with me, with us," she went on, her voice rising. "I want our life back. Oh, I know I hated it when he was working away, but I'd give anything to have what we had then."

Sighing, Brass gave her hand a warm squeeze.

"But that's never going to happen, is it? Things will never be the same again. Because when he comes out, he'll be a different man. And I'm so scared I've lost him."

"You haven't lost him," Brass said confidently.

"He doesn't want any contact with me at all," she exclaimed. "He won't let me visit. He won't let me email. I don't know how to help him if he won't let me."

"Just be there for him."

"But how? All I can do is write, and I don't even know if he reads my letters."

"You bet your ass he does. I'll go as far as betting mine that, as we speak now, he's lying in bed not daring to hope another one's on the way."

"You think so?"

"I know so." Brass smiled, then his smile turned melancholy and letting go of her hand he looked away. "When I did my two tours in Vietnam I was fresh out of high school. I broke my mother's heart, enlisting, but she wrote to me, and those letters, the news from home, are what carried me through the hard times." Glancing at Sara, he nodded toward the house. "The newspaper clippings in there? That's for him, right?"

Smiling softly, she nodded her head.

"Keep chipping away at his shell, at the hard wall he's built to protect himself. It's not going to be easy," he went on, when she opened her mouth to protest, "but you hang in there. He loves you Sara. Everything he did – however misguided it appears – was to protect you and Betty. I just wish I'd been firmer with him, you know, right from the start. Maybe if I'd refused to cover for him he'd have had no choice but to tell everyone the truth and we wouldn't be in this mess now." He paused and shrugged. "I'm sorry, Sara. I know I should have told you."

"It's okay," she said, and she found that she meant it. "I understand why you didn't. He gave you no choice, I can see that now. In your shoes, I'd have probably done the same thing."

Brass reached for her hand again, and smiling she gave his hand a squeeze.

"You know what the worst part is?" she asked. "Having to keep it from Betty now that I know." She let go of his hand to pick up her glass and finished what was left of her drink. "It's not like we even keep in touch. I mean, not anymore. It's just that…well, it feels wrong, you know? Like somehow _I'm_ betraying her, and I don't know what to do about it."

Brass sat back, pursed his mouth thoughtfully. "Do you want to tell her? I mean if you do, I'd want to come with you."

Sara smiled. "I don't know. I—" Lapsing into silence, she shrugged off the rest of her sentence.

"Did he tell you I forward emails he writes to her?" he said with disbelief. "I created a brand-new email account for him." He gave an empty laugh, then focusing his gaze to a point at the bottom of the yard took a sip of his beer. "I have his email address. I'll give it to you."

"I already have it." She smiled sadly. "But it won't work unless mine gets approved. And Gil is the only one who can make that happen. Catch 22, huh?"

"Do you want me to get a message to him? Or better still, why don't you use my email account to send him a message directly? I promise I won't read it," he went on, his tone light and teasing when she didn't immediately reply.

"No. I don't want to force his hand. I'll just keep doing what I'm doing, and wait until he's ready to make contact. What else can I do? I've been waiting for almost two years. What's a few more months, huh? At least now, I know where he is. I know he's safe – well, relatively safe."

Sara felt better for seeing and talking to Brass, for knowing she had his support. Sharing her fears and worries with him had helped put everything into perspective. She was glad she'd found it in herself to put her ill-feelings toward the police captain aside. She could appreciate now how tough it must have been for him to keep Grissom's secret from her all this time, and how guilty and conflicted he must have felt about it all. Both DB and Nick knew about Grissom and had asked how the visit had gone, but unlike with Brass she couldn't confide in them completely.

They continued chatting for a while longer and when they grew cold moved back indoors before putting a timely end to the evening. "Thank you," she said, wrapping her arms around him and hugging warmly when he stood by the front door uncertainly. "I needed this."

They pulled apart, and Brass smiled. "Any time. You hang in there, alright? And keep sending him stuff. He needs you now more than ever."

After Brass left, Sara returned to her clippings, sticking post-it notes with annotations onto various articles and pictures. She felt more buoyed up now, more optimistic too, knowing, rather than hoping, that her perseverance would pay off.

And a few days later it did.


	9. Chapter 9

Grissom must have read Sara's letter a hundred times, if not more, in the three days since he'd received it. It was short, far too short, her small script merely covering one page, but its words of love and comfort, and hope too, couldn't have come at a better time. The meeting with his counsellor had left him anxious and uneasy, down on himself yet again for putting himself in a situation he couldn't see a way out of, but whereas in the past he'd have wallowed in his own self-pity afterwards, Sara's letters had managed to take his mind off his woes and raise his spirits.

He'd made himself wait until long after the lights had been dimmed, when the unit was deadly silent bar for Manuel's soft snoring coming from above, to read them. He wanted to savour every word without being disturbed, without anyone knowing. He wanted to indulge and lose himself in the happy memories they evoked and spend a little time in a world not so imaginary, and yet sadly out of his reach. He wanted to let himself imagine he was someplace else and not locked up in a cell, so he could spend a moment alone with her. He wanted to be able to cry without being seen or heard.

The mailroom staff had used biro to write his inmate number and his and his unit's name on the back of the photograph of the two of them she'd included, indenting the front and distorting their features in the process. He'd stared at the photograph at length, pressing his finger over and over it so as to smooth down the indentation, all the while wishing she'd sent a shot of herself where she was facing forward rather than looking at him. Seeing only half her face wasn't enough.

It pained him to see how happy he looked then – how happy they both looked – and how much he'd changed. He remembered the moment Greg had taken the picture like it was yesterday. His face was flushed, from staying too long in the sun and grilling food. To celebrate Sara's fortieth birthday they'd invited their closest friends for a relaxed early evening meal in their backyard before some of them – not Sara – had to go to work. He was home from some place or other he'd forgotten about now, and catching up with everyone. He hadn't seen, or spoken to, Nick, Greg or Catherine since.

The second letter – which he'd opened first – hadn't contained a note at all, but the front page and crossword puzzle of that Tuesday's New York Times. The stamp had been cut out of both envelopes – nothing unusual about that; stamps were removed from all inmate mail as a matter of course – but the postmark of the first letter clearly showed that it had been posted from Beaumont on the previous Monday, just as he would have expected as she was leaving town then.

The second letter however had been posted the next day – Tuesday, the New York Times's cuttings attesting to that – from Houston. Hadn't Sara said that she was flying back to Vegas on Monday? If so, then what was she still doing in Houston on Tuesday? Why the delay, he couldn't help wondering? Could it just be that flights had been cancelled? Or was there another reason to explain why she'd extended her stay? If there was, he couldn't think of it, and for the first time he wished he wasn't so cut off from the outside world so he could find out.

"Still stuck on the same word?" Manuel asked, drawing him out of his daydream.

"Huh?" he said, absentmindedly turning toward his cellmate.

Manuel was sitting at the table, doing what he called 'school work'. "'It turns into a different story'," he recited, nodding at the crossword puzzle in Grissom's hand.

Smiling, Grissom gave his head a shake. "Nah. I got that one." That clue had left him stumped for a long time, but he'd finally worked it out while cutting the grass that morning.

The disbelief in Manuel's voice made Grissom's smile broaden. "You did?"

"Yeah. The answer is spiral staircase."

Manuel frowned. "I don't get it."

Grissom pursed his mouth thoughtfully. "Well, the clue's deliberately cryptic. 'It turns into' translates to 'spiral' and 'a different story' to 'staircase'."

Manuel's stare was blank. "I still don't get it."

"Story? Floor? You need a staircase to get to a different story, meaning a different floor."

Manuel was watching him with disbelief. "And you enjoy doing that stuff?"

Grissom laughed again. "I used to."

"Okay, so give me another clue. One I can get this time."

Grissom got up off the bed and sat down next to Manuel. "Okay, that's an easy one," he said, scanning his gaze over the clues. "Boy in sp."

Manuel raised his hands in a give-me-a-break manner, and Grissom smiled.

"Sp stands for Spanish."

Manuel's face lit up. "Chico."

Grissom winced. "Four-letter word."

"Niño."

"Correcto."

"How about this one?" Manuel asked, pointing at the grid.

"European coastal plant once thought to be an aphrodisiac?" He shrugged. "I'm still working on it."

"Tell your wife to send a word search next time. That's about all I can manage."

Grissom's expression became thoughtful. Dare he hope there would be a next time?

His head shaking, Manuel pushed to his feet, and gathered his books and pencil and put everything away in his locker. After securing his locker, Manuel moved to the open cell door. "So, you coming or what?" he asked.

Grissom hesitated. "Coming where?"

"Mail call," Manuel replied, as if the answer was obvious. "It's almost time."

In the twelve months since he'd been there, Grissom had never once been to mail call. He had never needed to. The only mail he'd received in all that time, which wasn't a legal document that needed to be signed for in the mailroom, had been such a random occurrence that the officer had trusted Manuel with it. That was last Friday.

"I think I got my quota of mail last week," he replied quietly. "Don't you?"

Manuel gave an easy shrug before swiftly turning on his heels and disappearing out of sight. Grissom turned back to his crossword puzzle and gave a long sigh. "Wait up," he called loudly, removing his glasses and slipping them and the crossword puzzle under his pillow before quickly catching up to his cellmate. What were the chances, he wondered, that Sara had got another letter out to him so soon? And then why would she, he reasoned, when he hadn't replied yet, still couldn't bring himself to?

He and Manuel joined the throng of men gathering in the day room. It seemed like mail call was the event of the day, not to be missed. As soon as the correctional officer walked in, silence fell over the room. Grissom had never seen so many men stand as still and quiet as they all did then. Names were called quickly and in alphabetical order, mailed was handed over, or not if the inmate wasn't present, and Grissom found himself waiting with bated breath.

"Gerber…Giffard…Grisham…Grissom," the officer then called, and startling he moved forward and showed his inmate ID card. His heartbeat quickened in anticipation, only to plummet on realising that what the officer was handing over wasn't a letter from Sara but a narrow slip of paper.

"What's this?" he asked, unable to hide his disappointment.

"It's a lay-in to go to the mailroom tomorrow. The time's on it." And then without wasting time, the officer called the next name on his list.

Grissom scanned his eyes over the slip but the writing was too faint and without his glasses he couldn't make much out. "Why?" he asked, confused.

The correctional officer paused, looked confused. "Why what?"

"Why do they want to see me?"

"How should I know?" the officer replied, impatiently turning away and calling out the next name.

Manuel leaned in toward Grissom. "You must have gotten mail that's been denied," he said in a whisper.

Grissom frowned. "Denied?" he repeated, before the penny dropped.

"It's no big deal," Manuel went on. "It's happened to me a bunch of times."

But Grissom wasn't listening. All he could think about was the fact that there was a letter for him within the prison grounds, undoubtedly from Sara, which he wasn't allowed. Anger filled him suddenly, anger he'd repressed for so long that there was only one way for it go. Grissom stared at the lay-in with blurry eyes and scrunched it up into a ball.

"So, you're telling me," he said indignantly, once again interrupting the officer mid-call, "that I've got mail, but you're refusing to give it to me?"

A few heads turned toward Grissom. A few cheers sounded, and a few disgruntled, "Give it up," to Grissom and "Get on with it," to the correctional officer, who pausing had raised a pacifying hand toward Grissom.

"Listen, I don't want a riot, so cool it." Lifting a brow, the officer held Grissom's gaze levelly. The message was clear, "Unless you cool it, I'll cool it for you, and then you can be sure you won't get any mail for a long time." When, after looking all around at the expectant faces of the inmates gathered there, Grissom nodded his head, the officer lowered his hand. "If you're unhappy with the way things are done in here, take it up with the captain." He held Grissom's gaze for a beat longer before resuming his mail call.

Dropping his gaze, Grissom turned around and stormed out of the day room without waiting for Manuel. He wished he could go to the yard to take his frustrations out on the punch bag, but he couldn't, and so he retreated to the only place he could, his bed, and punched his pillow instead. He felt angry and frustrated at himself and the system. He'd allowed himself to hope, opening himself to more pain in the process, only to have those hopes crushed so mercilessly.

When, soon after, Manuel returned to the cell, he was looking serious and slightly anxious. With a sigh, Grissom turned onto his side, resuming his usual position when needing to be alone of facing the wall.

"Maybe she put perfume on it," Manuel said quietly, sincerely, unfazed by Grissom's ways by now. "Or maybe it had lipstick kisses on. I heard that's a big no-no too." And when Grissom didn't reply, "It has to be contraband, though, for it to be denied."

Manuel's comment gave Grissom pause. What kind of contraband were we talking about here, he wondered? Nothing illegal, that was a given. He knew Sara would have carefully researched the dos and don'ts of sending mail to an inmate, so what could she have possibly overlooked?

"Maybe she sent you an elaborated plan to break out of here," Manuel went on musingly. "Hey, you'd take me with you, right?"

Grissom smiled despite himself. If only Manuel knew what Sara did for a living, he thought, helping put people in jail rather than break them out. Laughter bubbled up inside him at the thought of Sara going against everything she believed in, just to get him out of this hell. "I don't think so," he replied, once again turning onto his back. "And she doesn't wear perfume." And then with a dreamy look on his face, "The lipstick kisses would be nice."

Manuel smiled widely. "Don't let it get to you, man," he said, moving to his locker and working the padlock. "The assholes in the mailroom are...well, just that, assholes." He looked over his shoulder. "I'm sure she'll write you plenty more letters."

Touched by Manuel's kind words, Grissom nodded his head. Manuel got his deck of cards out of his locker, sat down at the table and wordlessly dealt them out. Grissom hesitated, but then got up from his bed and after finally locating his glasses joined Manuel. Often, they would kill time until Manuel had to go to work and Grissom to his English class playing Conquian, a Mexican rummy-style game Manuel was fond of, which was played with 40 cards rather than the standard 52. Grissom enjoyed the game, even if he was still learning the rules. It would keep his mind busy, for the time being anyway.

Later, when the unit was asleep for the night, Grissom read Sara's letter again. He knew it almost word for word by now, and if he closed his eyes he could almost hear her read it out loud to him. He didn't remember falling asleep, but when morning call came at 6.30 the next day, he was refreshed and ready to face another day. After breakfast he did his two hours' work duty, had a quick wash and then lunch. All the while, his mind churned with the possibilities. At 11.30 sharp, he was at the mailroom window, waiting for an explanation.

"Yes?" the clerk said, barely looking away from her computer screen.

Grissom cleared his throat. "I got given this," he said, putting the lay-in into the transaction drawer.

The clerk slid the drawer over to her side and checked the slip. "ID?" she asked, pushing the drawer back. After Grissom had provided her with his inmate ID card, she typed his number into the computer, read the information on the screen and looked at Grissom. "Tell the missus, no sticky notes," she said, her expression deadpan, almost bored.

He frowned. "Sticky notes?"

"You know, sticky notes." She reached under her counter and produced a pad of post-it notes. "Stickers are not allowed. And sticky notes are stickers. So, they're not allowed either, on the envelope or inside the letter, or the mail gets rejected. The rule is very clear on that."

"How do you mean _rejected_?"

"It gets denied. You can't have it."

The thought of not being able to read Sara's new letter filled him with panic. It almost felt as if he was being denied food or water. She would have spent time – time she didn't have – writing a letter he wouldn't get to read. Maybe she'd even included another photograph, or more newspaper cuttings, which he'd never get to see either.

"Because of some measly post-it notes my wife stuck to it?" he said, his voice rising in anger and disbelief alike. "You already cut out all the stamps. Couldn't you just…pull off the sticky note too?"

Pausing, the clerk gave him a dark look. "Are you telling me how to do my job?"

Grissom took a breath, tried to curb his growing exasperation. "So, what happens to it?" he asked. "The mail that gets denied, I mean. Surely, you just don't keep it on a shelf here, do you?"

"No. And we don't destroy it either, contrary to popular belief. That'd be against federal law, wouldn't it? Provided your wife's return address is valid, she'll get the mail back, with a note explaining why it was denied. But that can take days. Weeks even."

"So, Sara wouldn't know I didn't get to read her letters," he exclaimed with disbelief.

"Not until she got them back. No."

"So in that time she could think I deliberately chose not to reply, when in fact I never got them in the first place."

The clerk let out a long sigh and fixed him with a look that told Grissom his time was up. "Which is why I'm telling you now," she said deliberately slowly. "So you can let your wife know, like now, today. Then she doesn't have to worry and she can make sure it doesn't happen again." She paused. "You new here? Would a brochure explaining everything help?"

"No," he said through gritted teeth. "A brochure would not help." Hesitating, he looked beyond the clerk to the office beyond. There was only one other person, seemingly engrossed in what he was doing. Grissom lowered his voice to a beseeching whisper. "What if I was to stand here and pull the sticky label off myself and then hand it to you to dispose of? I wouldn't even read it. Could I get my mail then?"

"No can do. It's against regulations."

"I get that," he said, stressing each word deliberately. He was trying hard, but his emotion once again threatened to get the better of him. "And believe me, I'm all for rules and regulation. But—but can't you just forget the rules this one time?" One carefully-plucked eyebrow rose, and Grissom sighed. "How many were there?" he then asked, badly hiding his disappointment. "The letters that got denied."

The mail clerk checked her computer screen. "Two."

His heart sank. "Two?"

The clerk returned the ID card to him. "But unless you let her know, there'll be more. Might even be more on the way already, for all you know. And they're all going to get denied. So get on the phone to your wife today and let her know."

Grissom felt tears rise, prickling the back of his eyes. "I can't," he said in an inaudible whisper and taking his ID from the tray shook his head miserably.

Just as he turned to leave, the clerk sighed. "Tell you what," she said, "Since it's your first time…" She pointed at the ID card in his hand and then at the drawer.

Grissom placed the ID back in the drawer, then watched with bated breath as ID in hand the clerk crossed the office to an adjoining room only to return a minute or so later with two letters. His heart raced with anticipation, and he willed it to calm lest she decided he couldn't have his mail after all. Back at the counter, she checked his ID against the inmate information Sara had written on the envelope of the first letter, then pulled her handwritten note, newspaper and magazine cuttings out of it and laid them out onto the counter.

Realising how long Sara would have spent putting this little bundle together just for him made his heart swell with love for her. He should have hated the fact that someone had sifted through – _was_ sifting through – Sara's mail to him, but right then he didn't care. He just wanted what was rightly his. He didn't have his glasses with him, but he could clearly see the many brightly-coloured, different-sized sticky notes attached to the cuttings. He could see now why the letter had got rejected. His hands twitched by his side, yearning to touch, as his eyes flicked between his mail and the clerk restlessly.

"See what I mean?" she said when he remained silent, and he nodded his head.

"I'll let her know," he said, his smile growing in excitement. "I promise it won't happen again."

The clerk stared at him meaningfully. "Too right, it won't."

Her head shaking, she began pulling off the post-it notes. He wouldn't get to read Sara's comments and annotations, but he was sure that when he read the articles he'd know exactly what she'd been thinking when she'd included them in the package. When after what felt like a lifetime the letters and his ID were finally slid to him via the tray, he could barely contain his joy and excitement.

"You don't know what this means to me," he said, tears blurring his eyes. "Thank you."

The clerk gave him a warm smile. "You're welcome."

Grissom didn't read the letters, not straight away. He would wait until the dead of night so he could be alone with Sara to do so. Back in the empty cell, he stowed the letters safely away, then took a pen and paper and drafted a message he'd email her to let her know about the restrictions. He knew he'd only have fifteen minutes on the computer before his session expired, so he needed to be prepared and keep the message short and to the point. That was of course, if Dr Walker had carried out his own instructions and Sara's email address had already been approved and added onto his account.

He thought about phoning her, but he knew he wouldn't manage a conversation without breaking down. An email, he could plan and handle. When his turn came on a computer, he put his glasses on, quickly logged into his CorrLinks account and blew out a breath of relief on seeing Sara's name directly below Brass's in his list of two. He clicked on it, opening a brand-new message box, got his piece of paper with his draft on from his pocket and began to type.

 _Sara,_

 _I'm sorry I didn't make contact straight away._ _It's not because I didn't want to, but―_

He paused and deleted the 'but', changed the comma to a period. "What's the point of having a draft if you're not going to stick to it?" he muttered discontentedly. He looked around the computer room nervously, then wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs and clenched his hands into fists to stop them from shaking.

 _I've only got fifteen minutes on the computer. W_ _ell, more like eleven now, so I'm sorry if this is shorter than you'd like. Truth be told, had my hand not been forced I still mightn't have found the courage to write at all. But here I am._

 _I wanted to thank you for your letters – I've gotten four so far (I haven't read the last two I got – I'm keeping them for tonight), and the photograph, the articles and the crossword puzzle I don't seem to be able to complete. It would seem my brain isn't as sharp as it used to be, but I have all the time in the world in here to figure out the clues and I will. So, anyways, I wanted to thank you and let you know how―_

Becoming emotional, he stopped and took a moment to compose himself, then thought what the hell and let his words come from the heart rather than his head.

― _happy your letters made me feel._ _I must have read your first one a thousand times, if at all. I hardly slept at all that night._

He glanced at the computer clock, his eyes widening in panic on seeing he only had a few minutes left.

 _Anyways, they're going to cut me off soon, so before I forget, the reason behind this harried email, as well as thanking you of course, is that I wanted to let you know that stickers aren't allowed in the mail we receive (either on the envelope or inside the letter) and that includes sticky notes. I was lucky this time – I think the mailroom clerk took pity on me – but she made it clear that it won't happen again. I don't know if you've written more letters – I hope with all my heart that you have – but if you have and they contain sticky notes, they'll get returned to you without my having read them._

And because his time was up and he didn't want the message to be irretrievably lost, he promised he'd write again soon before signing off and clicking on send.

Then he closed his eyes and cursed himself for all the things he'd forgotten to say.


	10. Chapter 10

Cursing, Sara reversed her Honda CR-Z into the parking spot, killed the engine and grabbing her purse from the passenger seat exited the car. As she jogged over to the lab's entrance, she locked the Honda and pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head. Inside the building, she acknowledged the front desk clerk with a quick nod and rushed to the locker room. She hated being late for shift and missing briefing and assignments, not that tardiness was ever a regular occurrence for her, but she'd stayed up late putting together another letter for Grissom and had consequently slept in.

Today was Tuesday, ten days since she'd seen her husband. She still hadn't got any news from him, but she wasn't letting it get her down or stop her from writing to him. She just told herself it was still early days, that he needed time to get used to the fact that she was back in his life for good, that it was only a matter of time until he relented and made contact. Brass was right. She needed to keep chipping away at his resolve, and she would. She'd done it before, hadn't she?

She was sitting on the bench lacing up her work boots when in walked Nick. Smiling, she glanced up at him but her greeting died on her lips when she saw the determined look on his face. He was a man on a mission, with no time to waste.

"Oh, good, you're here," he said, waving an assignment slip in the air. "419 at Gravel Rock Quarry out near Primm. You and me."

Her brow rising, she watched as reaching inside his locker he quickly slipped on his CSI vest and then took out his gun and holster. "What's the rush?" she asked, pushing to her feet, knowing the quarry would be shut down for the night anyway.

"The body's exposed, and rain's moving in from the west. Everything okay?" he went on, his gaze holding genuine warmth and concern when she looked over at him. "It's not like you to be late."

"Sure," she replied firmly, and slipped on her vest and then her windbreaker on.

Nick's acknowledging nod of the head before he finally turned away to finish getting ready was unconvinced.

"I'm fine, Nick," she insisted, reaching for her field kit. "I overslept, that's all."

Shutting his locker door, Nick turned toward her and smiled widely. "That's good to hear."

He'd been like that ever since she'd come back from Texas, overly watchful and attentive. His concern was touching, if misplaced. She knew he wanted to ask about Grissom and how she was coping, but he didn't and she was grateful. Together they packed up the truck and then swiftly set off, a companionable silence soon settling between them. It wasn't until they were headed south on the I-15, with the bright lights of Vegas well and truly behind them, that Nick finally spoke.

"You're very quiet," he remarked, flicking his eyes off the road over to her.

"So are you," she countered lightly, and smiled.

He acknowledged her comment with a nod. "Fair enough."

"I'm okay," she said, pre-empting his next question, "I've just…got a lot on my mind, I guess."

Glancing over at her, he held her gaze levelly. "Grissom?"

Her smile fading, she flicked her eyes back to the dark road and nodded her head.

"You want to talk about it?"

"There isn't much to talk about really." She turned toward him, but he was watching the road. "I'm just playing the waiting game, and I'm not very good at it."

Nick gave her a hopeful smile. "But you said it went well, right? That you talked?"

Her shoulder lifted, and she sighed. "We did, but…I haven't heard from him since, so maybe it didn't go as well as I'd first thought."

Nick registered a look of surprise. "It's still early days," he said after a beat, his tone light and positive.

"That's what Jim said."

Nick nodded. "It's bound to be hard at first, you know? For both of you."

Nick was being kind, but his concern instead of appeasing her made her feel increasingly maudlin. Lapsing into silence, he refocused on the road. Even in the darkened cab of the truck, there was something about his demeanour, about the way the muscles in his jaw twitched and he repeatedly nipped at his bottom lip that got Sara thinking. He was looking troubled. Something was on his mind, she could tell, and she was sure it involved Grissom.

"Nick?" she asked, the inflection in her voice letting him know she knew something was the matter.

Glancing toward her, he sighed then shrugged his shoulder before turning his attention back to the road.

"Do you…" she swallowed the sudden lump in her throat, "know something I don't?"

He snapped his eyes to her. "About Grissom? No, I don't. I swear to you. You know everything I know."

She watched his profile face closely, but she had no doubt that he was telling the truth. "Then, what is it?" she asked, her eyes narrowing quizzically.

Keeping his eyes on the road, he shrugged. "I mean, I know it's none of my business…"

"But?" she prompted when he faltered.

He paused, hesitating. "We've known each other a long time, and I care about you." He flicked his eyes over to her. "You know that, right?" And when she just stared at him expectantly, "Have you spoken to Grissom's attorney at all? It's just that…you extended your stay and I figured…well, that maybe you'd gotten in touch with him."

Sara frowned, and then pondering Nick's train of thought pursed her mouth thoughtfully. "Well, I didn't go to see him, if that's what you mean. But yeah, I did speak with him over the phone. Why?"

Nick let out a long breath. As he spoke, his eyes kept flicking between her and the road. "I was just…wondering if he was up to the job, that's all. I mean, I find it strange that he allowed Grissom to plead guilty to intoxication manslaughter when his blood alcohol was at .07, which as you know is below the legal limit."

Sara gave a wry smile. "Gil didn't give him a choice. Either that, or he would have represented himself in court." She paused. "He knew what he was doing, Nick. Both Brass and his attorney tried to get him to change his mind and enter a plea of vehicular manslaughter, but Gil refused point-blank. He wouldn't have it. Still, now, he thinks he got off lightly. Too lightly. His attorney is a good man; I do believe he did everything he could for Grissom."

Nick nodded his head, but the deep frown creasing his brow suggested he was still trying to fit all the pieces of the puzzle together. "So, you're telling me he deliberately sabotaged his own defence plea?"

"Yep," she replied, the word a mere whisper on her lips. Shrugging helplessly, she turned away to hide her sudden sadness **.**

Nick sighed, then returning his attention to driving remained silent for a while. She could try to explain to him about Grissom's motives; how his guilt, deep shame and self-blame had driven him to seek more punishment than the courts might have bestowed on him if he'd pleaded not guilty and his attorney had been able to put together his normal defence for such a case; how pleading guilty, cutting himself off his past, family and friends and going to prison, had been the only way for him to live with what he'd done. But how could she explain all that, when she still struggled to come to terms with it herself?

"How about getting him transferred closer to home?" Nick went on, drawing her out of her thoughts. "I mean, not _too_ close to home obviously, that'd be too risky, but, you know, somewhere in California or Arizona maybe. That'd make it easier for you, wouldn't it?"

Sara nodded her head. "I've thought about it, but Gil's attorney said that the transfer request would have to come from Gil, and as it stands I'm not sure that's what he wants."

"Well, maybe he should start thinking about what _you_ want," Nick countered vehemently.

Nick's brusque tone caught her by surprise. "He's the one behind bars, Nick, not me," she replied sadly.

Nick opened his mouth, but then shut it with a sigh and his head shaking turned back to the road. She didn't want to get into an argument with him, not when he was being so supportive, but he only knew what little she'd told him or read in Grissom's case file, and she didn't want to betray Grissom by revealing the full extent of his breakdown.

"You know I'm here for you, right?" Nick said after a while, taking his hand off the wheel to pat her leg. "You need time off, anything; I've got your back."

Returning his warm smile, she covered his hand with hers. "I know. And I appreciate you looking out for me."

Nick's smile widened, and he winked at her, and her head shaking she laughed. Some ten minutes later, the bright lights of Buffalo Bill's Resort and Casino appeared in the distance, shining like a beacon in the desert night, announcing their imminent arrival in Primm. Another five minutes, and they'd reach their destination. Sara tried to clear her mind and put her professional mask on. Glancing toward her, Nick flashed a quick smile, then signalled and turned off the interstate.

"Did you know this is where Grissom brought me on our first date?" she asked suddenly, out of the blue.

"What Gravel Rock Quarry?" Nick exclaimed in disbelief.

"No," she said, laughing. "Buffalo Bill's. He took me to ride the Desperado."

Nick's face lit up with mischief. "Well, he took me to the body farm on _our_ first date. So how about that, huh?"

And as Nick negotiated his way to their crime scene they spoke about the Grissom they loved and missed, the one whose quirky habits not many people knew about, understood or appreciated, who loved nothing more than to ride roller coasters at the dead of night because even though the laws of physics made it impossible it still felt like the coasters moved faster then.

As they worked, steadfastly sketching and photographing the scene, diligently documenting and collecting evidence, Sara's thoughts drifted back to Grissom, the idea of a transfer to a prison closer to home playing around in her head. How feasible was that, she wondered? How much easier, and cheaper too, would it be to reconnect with him if he wasn't so far away? Was that something he'd ever agree to, though? Right then, she doubted it very much. All that, of course, was a moot point unless he made contact.

"I'm going to make myself a coffee before I get started on the victim's clothes," she said when they were back at the lab with their evidence all logged in. "You want one?"

Engrossed, Nick didn't look up from the form he was filling in. "Sure." And then as she walked away, "Thanks."

She was in the break room leaning against the counter, waiting for the water to filter through, when her phone vibrated in her pocket. Instinctively, she reached for it and found a text from DB waiting. After texting back that they'd finished already and were back at the lab, she checked her emails. She had four new ones waiting. Her heartbeat quickening, she zoomed in on the one received at 22.13. Her eyes narrowing, she brought the phone closer to her face and finally recognising the Corrlinks name hurriedly swiped her fingers over the screen, opening the email.

Tears welled in her eyes, tears of joy and relief she tried but failed to contain. It was a notification that an email from Grissom was waiting, and hardly daring to believe he'd finally made contact Sara clicked on the link. Her emotions were all over the place. She wanted to rejoice, but then didn't fully dare to, not yet, not until she'd read the email. She waited with bated breath for the page to load, and when it finally did she was told that in order to access the email she'd either have to set up an account or log into one.

Glad that she'd had the forethought to create an account, she looked up and scanned her eyes around the empty break room and then beyond, toward the corridor and adjoining labs. Satisfied that she was alone, she began entering her login details. She was typing in her password when hearing voices approaching she paused and looked up. Laughing, Finn and Morgan rounded the corner, headed straight toward her. Her heart sinking at the disturbance, she quickly switched her phone off and after putting it away busied herself with the coffee pot.

"Sara," Finn called, smiling brightly, "you're a godsend. I was just telling Morgan how I could murder a coffee right about now."

Sara barely acknowledged her colleague's words. She just stood there frozen, coffee pot in hand, her mind racing with the possibilities.

"Is everything okay?" Finn went on, her smile fading uncertainly as she studied Sara. "You seem a little…preoccupied."

Refocusing, Sara flashed a wan smile. "I'm fine; sorry." She replaced the pot on the stand and then pointed at the doorway. "I just got to—I forgot to—I'll be right back."

She turned on her heels and exited the break room, leaving her two colleagues staring, stunned and confused, at her retreating form. She thought about going to her car but her keys were in her purse in her locker. Instead, her steps took her to the ladies' room down the hall. There, she locked herself in a cubicle, lowered the toilet seat and taking the phone out of her pocket sat down. With shaking hands, she turned the device back on. Her heart was still racing, but her earlier joy at receiving the email had been replaced by worry and a sense of foreboding she couldn't shake.

What if the email was bad news, she couldn't help wondering now? What if, instead of reaching out to her as she'd first thought, Grissom was writing to put an end to her correspondence? What if, instead of lightening his load, it had had the opposite effect of making him more depressed and miserable?

"Come on, Sara," she chastised herself, "Don't be a chicken."

She took a breath, quickly finished logging into her account and following the links accepted then retrieved his email. With every word she read, her pulse quickened. Then her eyes filled again with joy and relief, hope and anticipation too. He was happy. Her letters made him happy. At last, she thought, he was beginning to let her in. Closing her eyes, she let her tears fall. And then she began to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, quietly at first and then more loudly, her happiness echoing strangely, eerily in the small cubicle.

But when on closer reading she finally saw through to the desperation, panic and anxiety lurking behind his words, her laughter petered off, gradually turning to sobs. Quiet heaves at first that turned more intense as anger once again set in. "It's not fucking fair," she cried, head in her hands, when the harsh reality of their circumstances once again manifested itself.

Why did they have to take away the one thing that made him happy? Why couldn't the system leave him—them well alone? The rational part of her could understand why stickers were banned; it was relatively easy to mix many an illegal substance within the glue. But couldn't they see what harm they were doing by denying him her mail? A whole week's worth of mail he wouldn't get to read, and all that because of a stupid, stupid oversight on her part.

"Sara? Is that you?"

Sara's ears pricked, Finn's call startling her into silence. Freezing, she stared at the back of the locked door, wondering how much Finn had heard, hoping, praying that she just disappeared. Instead, Finn went into the next cubicle, shutting and locking the door. Wiping her wet eyes, Sara waited on tenterhooks. She heard a buckle and then the rustling of clothes before Finn sat down and took care of business. Slowly, her head turned toward the sound. Maybe if she was quick enough, she could get out and away without being noticed. But Finn's next words once again froze Sara into stillness.

"There's only two reasons a woman cries when she's on the john," she said quietly, but loudly enough for Sara to hear through the thin partition wall between them, "Either she's pregnant and she doesn't want to be, or she's not and she'd like to."

Paper was pulled out of the dispenser next door before Finn got dressed and the toilet was flushed. The lock was turned, and without another word Finn stepped out and moved to the sinks. Sara waited until Finn had washed and dried her hands and the door in and out of the bathroom had open and shut to let out the long breath she'd been holding all this time. She waited a beat longer to make sure the coast was clear, and when she heard nothing but water flowing, refilling the cistern next door, she finally stood up and put her phone away.

Glad that she wasn't wearing any makeup that would need touching up, she pulled a wad of paper out of the dispenser and dabbed lightly at her face and eyes. Without bothering with the pretence of flushing, she ruffled her hair into place, opened her door and got out of her stall. Finn stood there, waiting, staring straight at her as she leaned against the hand-washing station with her arms crossed over her chest. Her face was pinched, the look in her eyes deeply questioning but also full of concern.

Wordlessly looking away, Sara moved past her over to the next sink along and washed her hands and face.

"You okay?" Finn asked, turning toward her.

Sara turned the tap off and pulled some paper towels from the dispenser. "Sure."

"Sara…" Finn said in a disparaging don't-lie-to-me tone. And when tossing the paper towels in the trash Sara said nothing, "So, which one is it?"

Sara frowned. "Which one is what?"

"My pregnancy theory."

The ghost of a smile formed on her lips at the fact that Finn was so far off the mark. "It's neither. And for your information, I wasn't crying."

"Is that right?" Finn countered, her brow rising in disbelief as Sara briefly met her gaze in the mirror over the sink. "You could have fooled me." She sighed. "Sara, you need to…get your life back on track, you know? You've mourned long enough for – from what I heard – a relationship that wasn't satisfactory in the first place."

"Finn—" Sara cut in, but Finn was on a roll.

"No, I mean it. Get out there, go and get yourself another man. One that will be there to take care of you."

"I don't want another man!" Sara almost shouted, and then closing her hand in a fist checked herself. She moved to the door and paused. "I know you mean well," she went on, glancing at her colleague pacifyingly, "But please, keep your insights to yourself especially when you don't know what you're talking about."

"No, Sara," Finn countered levelly. "That's not how it works. I care about you and if I think you're unhappy then I'm going to tell you."

Sara let out a long breath. She wished she could open up to Finn. She wished she could tell her about Grissom and that he was back in her life, explain that the tears she'd shed just then were tears of frustration yes, but also tears of happiness. But Finn would – could –never understand. Finn had never found true love, she'd never lived it, never _felt_ it, never surrendered herself to it. She could never know what it meant to love someone unconditionally, the sacrifices it entailed but the incredible joys too. She didn't know what it was to be irremediably, irrevocably, connected to another human being so that not even prison could them part.

"Sara," Finn went on, "You've been distant lately, preoccupied. It's like your body's here doing the job but your mind's somewhere else. I'm worried about you."

"I'm fine," Sara tried, using her best appeasing tone.

"That's a lie, and you know it."

She sighed. "I appreciate your concern," she finally said, "but—"

"But, but…" Finn cut in, "There's always a 'but', Sara." She paused, gave Sara a small smile. "At least come out for a drink after shift. I'll ask around." And because she knew Sara well, "Just the guys, I promise."

Sara looked over at Finn, considered her reply carefully. "Alright, but I won't be able to stay long."

Finn's expression softened. "If I didn't know better I'd say you had a man on the side."

Sara couldn't help the smile that twitched at the corner of her mouth.

Finn's eyes widened with disbelief. "You do, don't you?"

Sara didn't bother putting her right; it was easier that way. Her head shaking, she went out of the ladies' room with Finn close on her heels.

"So, which one is it then?" Finn asked, catching up with her.

Sara's frown returned. "Which one is what?"

"My pregnancy theory!"

"There you are!" Nick said, smiling widely as he came out of the layout room. "What happened to that coffee you promised me?"

Sara stopped in her tracks. "Sorry," she replied, with a sideways glance at Finn, "I got…a little side-tracked."

Nick's eyes narrowed, flicking from Sara to Finn and back again suspiciously. Finn's phone rang suddenly, and with a long, lingering look at Sara she excused herself and moved away to take the call.

Frowning deeply, Nick watched her go. "What was that about?" he asked, refocusing on Sara.

"You know Finn. Your guess is as good as mine."

She indicated the break room, and they set off in that direction. The rest of shift flew by, with the team meeting at Frank's for breakfast afterwards. The atmosphere was light and playful, and Sara's mood improved, her fears and worries over Grissom once again temporarily pushed aside. Every so often, she would catch Finn watching her, but she just smiled back. She would have to be more careful in future and show more self-control. She couldn't afford to bring her problems into work as she had done tonight, not if she wanted to keep Grissom's whereabouts a secret.

When she finally got home, she read Grissom's email again, her tears returning with a vengeance. She was thinking of what to reply that would elicit an email back, when she had an idea. In the study, she took out Grissom's old chess board and set it up on the coffee table in the lounge. She studied the wood pieces at length, remembering the many games they'd indulged in over the years, most of them she'd lost, and made the first move, sliding a white pawn forward two squares.

In her email back to him she simply typed E4 and pressed send.

And then played the waiting game again.

Every day she wrote and mailed him letters – sans sticky notes of course.

But heartbreakingly got nothing back.


	11. Chapter 11

It was barely eleven in the morning and already, like a tiger in too small a cage, Grissom paced restlessly. Frustrated, he stopped at the cell door, and his head touching the bars looked all around at what he could see of the uncharacteristically quiet and seemingly deserted housing unit. If he didn't know better, he'd think he and Manuel were the only ones there. A little over one hundred and ten men locked up in their cell – had been for three long days – and not a sound could be heard.

With a sigh, he wiped a corner of his grubby uniform to his sweaty brow, looked at Manuel writing a letter in bed and moved to sit at the table again. He put his glasses back on and stared at the open English textbook with disinterest. Air didn't circulate well in the unit during the day or at night. There was no reprieve from the stifling heat or access to water that wasn't tepid. He missed not going to work and the little freedom and fresh air that came with it. And he was hungry; the paltry breakfast he'd scoffed down some five hours previously not nearly enough. Never again would he complain about the food served in the chow hall.

At first, he hadn't thought anything of the lockdown. They were a fairly regular occurrence in prison, the only way for the correctional officers to keep control over the population when short-staffed or in times of crisis. More often than not, in his experience anyway, lockdowns lasted a few hours, except for one instance when an officer had been hurt in a scuffle and they'd all remained locked up for two days. He'd heard from other inmates of much longer spells on lockdown, but until then he had never suffered one himself.

Lockdowns, just like shakedowns and strip searches, were simply another ritual humiliation to accept and live with when they became convicts. During lockdowns, all privileges were removed, except for one. What little freedom of movement they had within the walls was taken away from them, and that was what Grissom struggled coping with the most. There was no movement whatsoever within the unit, no outside recreation, no going to church or library, no school or counselling programmes and therapies, no visitation or commissary, email or phone calls; even work duties were withdrawn for most individuals.

The only privilege not taken away from the inmates was their mail. Receiving mail was sacrosanct; a source of pleasure Grissom had come to appreciate all too late. And just when he needed it the most, no mail was forthcoming. He knew Sara would have read his email by now and known not to include sticky notes in her correspondence, but it would take four to five days – longer maybe if mailroom staff was short, reallocated on account of the lockdown – for new letters to get to him. And so far, much to his chagrin, he hadn't got any.

Usually, he found periods of lockdown refreshing. They allowed him some peace and quiet from the everyday life of prison, a break from the mundane routine. They provided him a moment of solitude and introspection, of soul-searching, when he could reflect on why he was locked up and maybe even start to accept his situation and seek some form of forgiveness. But after three days, with too much time and no routine, bar the delivery of their two meals every day as per regulations, he was becoming angry and agitated **.**

Every day he would wake and hope the lockdown had been lifted. No amount of cell cleaning, reading and dozing, doing school work or playing Conquian with Manuel helped. And he was lucky; not every cellie was as easy to live with as Manuel was. He'd even tried his hand at sketching – simple prison shots at first, showing two men behind bars playing cards or lying on bunk beds dozing, then a profile view of Sara bent over a microscope, hair cascading all round her face. He wasn't very good at it, but it helped passed the time and for an all too brief moment took his minds off his woes.

Being continuously locked up for 24 hours of the day with so few resources was inhuman; it turned people into animals and slowly killed their soul. His reflection wasn't so positive anymore. Quite the opposite, he was beginning to realise how his life had no meaning and was being wasted, how he served no purpose while behind bars. And that was tough to deal with. Thinking of Sara helped. Thank God he had her correspondence to keep him going, his imagination and memories too, but unless the lockdown was lifted soon he feared they wouldn't be enough.

Beaumont med reminded him a lot of Las Vegas in this respect, with 1500 men crammed in a very confined space and too much time on their hands. When people from different ethnic groups, backgrounds or religions had to cohabitate and when wheeling and dealing took place on an everyday basis, disagreements were bound to occur. Tempers flared. Altercations and fights often broke out. Sometimes with no real consequences, but other times, like now, everyone got punished. It wasn't fucking fair.

"Grissom?" Manuel called quietly. "How about some mack for a couple of stamps?"

Dazed, Grissom looked blankly back at Manuel who was standing by his locker.

"Hey, it's cool, man," Manuel said easily, interpreting Grissom's non-response for refusal. "If you're running short yourself…"

Grissom gave his head a shake, refocusing. "Short of what?"

"Stamps." Manuel winced. "I've run out—used my last one yesterday. I just need a couple. Name your price; I'll pay."

Grissom mustered a faint smile. "Don't worry about it. It's fine." Tiredly, he pushed to his feet and went to his locker. "I got loads of stamps, and not much use for them right now. Wish I could trade them for a shower, that's for sure."

Manuel scoffed. "I'd like to see you try."

Automatically checking over his shoulder that officers weren't walking past, Grissom reached into his locker and conjured up from its depth a book of stamps. He gave Manuel two, and was putting the rest back when pausing he tore off a third from the booklet.

"Here," he said, giving it to Manuel, "for tomorrow."

Manuel's face softened with a grin. "Gracias, amigo."

"De nada."

Grissom put the remaining stamps back in their hiding place and then watched as the younger man carefully fixed stamps to two envelopes housing the long letters he'd spent the best part of the morning writing.

"There," Manuel said, leaning the letters against the wall on the table, "Ready for collection. Mi madre, she worries, you know? If she don't hear from me every day."

Grissom smiled.

"You're not writing to your wife?"

His smile fading, Grissom shook his head.

"You should tell her, you know? About the lockdown."

Suddenly feeling uncomfortable, Grissom closed his locker door, moved over to his bed and sat down on the edge of it. "I don't want to worry her. It could all be over by tomorrow."

"Or not." Manuel took a small pouch of macks out of his locker and then took up the spot Grissom had vacated at the table. "Rumours don't lie," he said, tearing the plastic pouch open with his teeth and then sharing out the content equally between his and Grissom's disposable food trays as he spoke. "And from what I heard happened, they're going to want to transfer some people out of here. That's going to take some time to organise. I'm telling you. We'll be lucky if it's all over by mid-week next week."

A fight between two rival gangs had broken out in the chow hall at dinner time on Tuesday night, turning into a riot. Grissom hadn't been present, but according to what Manuel had heard before they'd all been indefinitely confined to their cells it had been mayhem. Weapons had materialised, seemingly out of thin air. When officers had intervened to try to break it up some inmates had turned on them. Several inmates had been injured and subsequently taken to hospital, as well as two guards – one fatally, or so the story went. At first, Grissom had thought the tales exaggerated, but now, as the days stretched on, he wasn't so sure.

Letting out a long breath, he gratefully accepted Manuel's offering. "Still," he said, taking a small mackerel fillet between his fingers and popping it whole in his mouth. "Sometimes it's better not to know the full extent of what's going on."

Manuel made a face that said, "It's up to you, man." He picked up a mackerel fillet and just like Grissom ate it whole. "But no news is never good news when your loved one is locked up," he went on, chewing. "At least that's what mi mama says."

"Sara knows not to expect news," Grissom thought, but didn't say it out loud, because even to his ears it sounded cruel and selfish.

The two men finished eating their snack in silence. Afterwards, while Grissom ran their trays under the water and put them to dry on the shelf by the sink, Manuel did a few stretches before clambering back up to the top bunk. Grissom also returned to bed and slipping his glasses off closed his eyes.

"The first time I was on lockdown and my mother didn't hear from me she called the prison," Manuel said after a while, chuckling. "They never picked up the phone. One whole week, and she called every day and the sons of bitches never picked up. And you know why?"

Grissom didn't respond. Keeping his eyes shut, he just pursed his mouth thoughtfully, but Manuel didn't need prompting to carry on.

"Because no one's manning the phones when we're locked down 'cos everyone's too busy doing our jobs. 'Cos they've got us racked up like…" Manuel's voice rose suddenly to a long shout of frustration, "fuck-ing a-ni-mals!"

The echo of his outburst was met by a few whoop-whoops of agreement and "Shut up. We're trying to sleep," from nearby cells.

"Do you know what I'd kill for right now?" Manuel went on after a beat.

Grissom's mouth twisted at his cellmate's choice of words. "What?"

The bunk shook ominously as Manuel shifted on his mattress. Opening one eye, Grissom peered up and found Manuel watching him upside down with his head hanging over the edge."A beer. An ice cold beer."

Grissom's smile grew. "Any particular brand?" he asked, happy to go along with the game.

"Nah. As long as it's cold I'm not picky. And a steak. A nice juicy steak, with all the trimmings. None of that mackerel crap." Manuel shifted on his bed again, once again lying down. "There's this place where I come from that serves the best steaks. Cattlemens, it's called. They do ribs too. You should come try it sometime, you know, when we're both out." He paused suddenly. "You think it's still there? The steak house, I mean." And then without waiting for a reply, "After all these years, I wonder if it's still there. I'll ask my mother when I call her. Whenever that is."

Manuel fell silent, and Grissom pondered his words for a moment. He thought about home, about his mother and Sara, and how different everything was bound to be when he came out. Once again his guilt manifested itself at what he was putting them through. Sure, Sara knew where he was now, but even Betty who didn't must be wondering and missing him.

"Right now," he said, trying his hardest to keep the dark thoughts at bay, "I'd kill for a shower."

Voices approaching got Grissom and Manuel to sit up and turn toward their cell door expectantly. Necks craned, they listened intently as the cell next door was opened and a CO instructed the two occupants. Grissom and Manuel shared matching frowns of puzzlement that morphed to looks of disbelief and then wide smiles when they realised what was happening. Before either of them could mouth the word 'shower' they'd scrambled off their beds and reached for their soap and towel.

Two correctional officers came into view as well as a line of twenty or so unshackled and very orderly and happy-looking inmates. "Grab your kits," the first guard said needlessly, as he unlocked their door cell. "Mandatory shower time. You got thirty minutes."

"If I'd known we only needed to ask," Manuel whispered to Grissom, as they stepped out of the cell, "then I'd have asked sooner."

" _I_ asked," Grissom pointed out, "Not you."

"Shut up, you two," the officer said sternly, too aggressively especially when the situation didn't warrant it, "And get in line."

Piping down his excitement, Grissom followed Manuel to the back of the line and they all shuffled along to the next cell. It felt so good to be on the move again, even if they were only going down the hall to the shower room.

"Do you think we'll still be on lockdown after the weekend?" he asked Officer Riley who was watching the back of the line.

"The way things are at present it wouldn't surprise me if we were."

Grissom's heart sank. "Are the rumours true?" he then asked quietly, as the line moved further along.

A few heads turned to listen. "Depends on what you heard," Riley commented. "All I can say is that there is an on-going investigation and that until we can guarantee everyone's safety the facility will remain on lockdown."

Grissom nodded that he understood. "Will the officer that got hurt be okay?"

Riley gave a small shake of his head, and Grissom sighed.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said.

Riley gave a wry smile. "Not your fault."

Grissom got the first of Sara's new batch of letters the following Monday. It lifted his spirits immediately, even before he'd taken the single sheet of paper out of the envelope, the adrenaline rush so sudden and intense as to momentarily render him breathless. The letter was full of laughter and self-deprecation at her oversight and at how stupid she'd been, how stupid the system was. It was full of love and hope too, and of confidence he voraciously fed on. If she had doubts that he'd ever write back, that they'd ever see each other again, she didn't let on.

She apologised for not writing more, but promised she would the next day. She also promised to send back all the letters he'd been denied as soon as she received them, without the sticky notes of course. He could not contain his joy and relief, often laughing out loud despite the tears in his eyes as he read and reread her letter, much to Manuel's amusement. But the letter made him sad too, because it accentuated how much he missed her, how much of her life he was missing while he was behind bars.

She didn't say it, but her words, her tone, belied how much she missed him. She never once asked, but it was clear she craved more news from him. He realised then what she must be feeling, waiting for news but not getting any. How every day she would come home from work, check her mailbox and find it empty. What would it be like for him if suddenly she stopped writing and her mail stopped coming? How would he feel then? Heartbroken, that was how.

For the first time since his incarceration, he felt compelled not only to write to her, but to mail the letter too. He'd finally turned a corner. A wide smile on his face he rushed to his locker, took out his pen and a clean, slightly creased sheet of paper and, glasses perched at the end of his nose, sat down at the table to write.

 _My Darli—_

"Grissom, you okay?"

Startling, Grissom looked over his shoulder at Manuel watching him from the top bunk.

"You okay?" Manuel asked again, his face soft with concern.

"Sure," Grissom replied, bemused at the question.

Manuel nodded toward Sara's letter on the table. "It's not bad news?"

"No. It's not bad news."

Manuel's concern turned to puzzlement. "It's just that…well," wincing, he shrugged a sheepish shoulder, "you're acting a little…like…" He sighed. "You're kind of…crying." The final word was uttered so quietly that Grissom strained to hear it.

"Oh," he said, breaking into a sudden smile. He put the pen down and took off his glasses, then quickly wiped his eyes before slipping his glasses back on and turning back to the letter.

"I worry about you. This place, it makes you go loco. You know?"

"You don't need to worry," Grissom said absently. He picked up his pen again and adjusted his glasses. "I'm fine. I'm going to be just fine."

 _My Darling_ _Sara,_

 _I'm sorry it's taken me six days to write to let you know we're on lockdown. Not just my unit but the whole complex, it would seem. It's complicated, and if I told you the details of what I know then you'd probably never get to read this letter. Know that I am safe, bored out of my mind and frustrated – we all are – but I am safe._

 _I realise you must have gotten my email because today after almost a week of getting nothing I got another letter. Again, I want to thank you. Thank you for the letters and articles. They, and thinking of you, make these long hours easier to bear. Manuel and I try to keep ourselves busy and in a semblance of a routine, but it is hard._

Feeling tears rise, he slipped off his glasses, then wiping at his eyes took a deep breath he blew out softly before he checked over his shoulder – Manuel was on his cot, dozing – and continued.

 _I also want to thank you for not giving up on me despite what I put you through. I am not worthy of your love, of your patience, your generosity, not right now anyway, but I am grateful. Know that every day I look forward to receiving a letter from you and that this very letter I'm writing to you now is the first of many. Your letters have become my lifeline, and I hope mine can give you even a tenth of the joy and relief yours provide._

 _No matter what time of the day it is, I see your face and remember the warmth of your smile, the love in your eyes, and feel the strength of your embrace, the gentleness of your hand against my cheek. I finally understand the gift you have given me by loving me with such generosity of heart, without judgement. I know I have failed you in the most despicable way, and I hope that in time, I can make up for all the hurt I have caused you._

 _I love you, Sara, more than words can ever say, and I miss you. So much, it hurts._

 _Gil._

Once again, Grissom removed his glasses and wiped at his wet eyes. He felt more at peace now than he had done in a very long time. Soundlessly, he stood up from the table and moved to his locker. From there, he took out an envelope with his name and inmate number already written on and his booklet of stamps. He took them to the table. Diligently, he wrote Sara's name and address on the envelope and stuck a stamp in its corner. He didn't seal the envelope, the mailroom staff would do that after checking the letter's content.

He stared at the envelope for a long time, wondering if he should add to the letter. His thoughts took him home, to their house, and he imagined her there, going about her routine. At that time of day, she would be getting ready for work, or if she had the night off maybe she'd have taken refuge in their backyard with a little dinner and a glass of wine. And when he closed his eyes, he saw her there, as clear as day, with her eyes closed and her face turned up toward the evening sky, listening to the mating call of the cicadas.

A smile formed on his lips.

He heard them too.


	12. Chapter 12

Pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head, Sara hurried inside the dinner and scanned her eyes over the few patrons, looking for Brass. He was sitting in a booth at the back, away from the main breakfast crowd, and a smile breaking across her tired face she strode over to him purposefully.

"Sorry I'm late," she said, as he stood to kiss her cheek before they embraced warmly.

"Don't worry about it. I was late myself."

They sat down, and while Brass picked up his cooling cup of coffee and sipped at it, Sara reached for a menu, reading over the choice of pancakes. She was hungry, the sandwich and apple she'd eaten some time during shift now but a distant memory.

"This is a nice place," Brass commented pleasantly, putting his cup down.

Smiling, Sara looked up and cast a quick look around. "I haven't been here in ages," she said, and then when Brass's gaze became probing, "Gil and I, we used to meet here for breakfast sometimes." She shrugged. "They make nice pancakes. Not as nice as Gil's, but nice all the same."

His smile fading slightly into one of concern, Brass nodded his head. Wanting to be able to talk freely, Sara had suggested they met a little outside the beaten track, and this diner on the outskirts of Henderson fitted the bill nicely. It was clean and as far as she recalled the coffee was good too. It also held many a happy memory, which Sara was desperately trying to cling to right now. Coffee pot in hand, a young waitress walked up to their table, and a wide smile on her lips turned Sara's cup over. Sara nodded her head at the silent offer of coffee and then watched as the waitress filled her cup with a practised hand.

"I'll be back in a minute or so to take your order, alright?"

Both Brass and Sara smiled and nodded their thanks. Idly, Sara watched as the waitress moved over to the next table and offered to top up the coffee there, before she flicked her eyes back to Brass. He was watching her closely, measuredly. She thought he was about to ask how she was doing or comment on how tired she looked or on why she'd asked they met for breakfast, when he just flashed a smile and made to read his own menu.

He was biding his time, and Sara was happy to do the same. She'd been waiting for days already; another twenty minutes or so wouldn't hurt. The waitress was back in a flash, pen and pad in hand, still smiling her wide smile, and Sara wondered how she had the energy.

"I think I'm…going to be boring and have the blueberry pancakes with maple syrup," Sara said, looking up from her menu.

Brass slotted his back into the holder. "Make that two." He paused suddenly. "But add bacon to mine, will you? Nice and crispy."

"Sure thing. Anything else?"

Brass looked over to Sara quizzically, and she shook her head. "We're good, thanks."

Sara picked up her cup of coffee and after slowly blowing on it carefully took a sip. She could feel Brass's eyes watching her all the while and she knew he was done biding his time.

"You're looking tired, Sara," he said, right on cue. "And I don't mean it in a bad way. You looking after yourself properly?"

"Sure." Smiling, she put her cup down, stared at its content for a beat before looking back up to Brass. "Work's been crazy lately, you know that, and well…" she shrugged, "truth be told, I haven't been sleeping all that well either."

Brass gave a slow nod before he casually picked up his cup. "Still no news from Gil?" he asked, bringing it to his lips.

She shook her head. "Not since the email, no."

"I haven't heard anything either," he offered. "In case you were wondering."

Sara's only answer was a sad smile and nod before she looked down at her cup uncomfortably.

"They got to be on lockdown," Brass went on with conviction.

Sara shrugged. Despite how horrible she knew it would be for Grissom to be kept confined to a cell for twenty-four hours of the day she couldn't help hoping that the prison was indeed on lockdown. The alternative of Grissom choosing not to make contact with her again was just too painful to contemplate. "I try not to worry, you know? But no news isn't always good news, as you well know."

His gaze lowered to the cup in front of him, Brass remained silent.

"It's been ten days, Jim," she went on dejectedly, "and I really thought he would have replied by now. I mean, I'm not expecting a letter or anything, just an email back." She gave a short, sad laugh, musing as if to herself, "Or more precisely a letter and a number."

Frowning, Brass looked back up but evidently chose to let her comment go. "You called the prison?"

She gave a nod. "Several times, and my calls never get answered. I checked the website too, and all it says is that all visiting at the facility has been suspended until further notice." Her voice broke, and she swallowed the sudden constriction in her throat. Panic was beginning to set in again, and recognising the symptoms Sara set down her cup. Clenching her shaky hands together, she offered Brass a pained smile. "They've got to be on lockdown, right? I mean, he warned me, you know? That it could happen. When we spoke, he said that could happen and not to worry, but…" She sighed.

"You worry all the same. That's normal, Sara."

"What if something's happened to him? Would they even let us know? Let _you_ know?"

Brass watched her gravely. "I don't know."

"When I saw him, his nose was bruised. Well, the bruise was healing but, you know, it looked as if he'd gotten into a fight."

Brass let out a long breath. "I don't know anything about that either."

Sara nodded her head forlornly. Her eyes darted this way and that restlessly as she tried to blink back her tears. She knew Brass was speaking the truth, and she was glad he didn't try to play down her worries or tell her that it was probably nothing. It didn't help assuage her fears though. They both knew prisons were dangerous places, full of violence and bullying.

Brass reached his hand across the table and smiling gave hers a gentle squeeze. "You want me to make a call?"

"Would you?" she asked, her tone reflecting hope and relief alike.

He gave her a wide smile. "I'll make the call. See what I can find out."

"Thanks, Jim."

The waitress chose this moment to bring their food over. Brass withdrew his hand while Sara turned slightly away to hide her distress, and the waitress placed their orders in front of them.

"Enjoy!"

Once the waitress had gone, Brass picked up his cutlery with Sara following suit more sedately.

"You were right," Brass said after a couple of forkfuls, his mouth full, "these _are_ good."

Her smile returned. "We'll have to come again then."

"Definitely." His eyes on her face, Brass paused mid-chew. "I'm glad you called, actually," he went on, and finished his mouthful. "There's something I want to discuss with you." He paused, hesitating, before turning his attention back to his food. "I'm in a bit of a conundrum actually."

Frowning, Sara stopped eating. "A conundrum, huh?" she said, teasingly, but the look in Brass's eyes when he looked up told her not to make light of the situation. "What is it?"

Brass motioned with his knife and fork that she should continue eating. "It's about Betty," he said eventually, cutting into his next pancake, and Sara slowly followed suit. "You know how I forward Gil's emails to her and vice-versa, right?"

Her brow furrowed, Sara brought some food to her mouth and nodded her head.

"Well, the last email I forwarded from Gil was a month's back, give or take, and…well she hasn't replied to it. And that's not like her to leave it this long." He held her gaze steadily, earnestly. "I don't know what to do, Sara. Do I leave it? Maybe she just got fed up with him and is giving him the cold shoulder, so to speak. Or do I check up on her?"

Sara finished her mouthful. "You think that something's the matter?"

Brass shrugged. "I don't know. The problem is, I can't think of a valid reason why I _would_ pay her a visit. I mean, what little dealings we've had in the past have always been through Gil and…well, I don't want to worry her or put myself in a situation where I have to reveal more than I'd like." He gave a mirthless laugh. "Well, that's assuming I manage to communicate with her at all. I know she reads lips, but well…like I said, Gil's always been there to translate in the past."

"Interpret," she corrected quietly, automatically, "Not translate," and Brass acknowledged her point with a nod. Brass's concern was genuine, she was sure of it, or he wouldn't be raising the issue with her, not as things stood. Maybe she could send Betty a text message, she reasoned, or even use the text telephone at their house to call her, but somehow that didn't feel right after months without contact. " _I_ could call on her," she offered after a moment's pause.

"And what would you say?"

Sara thought about her reply at length but came up blank. "I don't know," she admitted with a sad smile. "But I'll think of something."

"You sure?"

She gave a definite nod. "If something is the matter with her, health-wise I mean, I know Gil would want to know. He'd never forgive himself if the worst was to happen and he wasn't there."

Brass scoffed. "There isn't much he can do for her from behind bars."

Her eyes averting, she nodded her head. "At least he could start to make amends and peace with her, and himself," she thought, but didn't say.

"We could…go visit her together," Brass offered.

"I don't think that's a good idea. I think seeing us both on her doorstep might set off too many alarm bells." She paused. "But I won't lie to her, Jim. Not if she suspects everything isn't as it seems and asks outright if I know where he is."

Brass gave a nod. "I agree. There's been far too many lies already." A smile formed, twitching mischievously at his lips. "Of course, you could always pretend you don't understand what she's saying."

Sara made a musing sound. "You're right," she said. "I need to brush up on my signing first."

While they finished their breakfast, Sara regaled him with some embarrassing moments spent with her mother-in-law on account of her poor signing. She'd tried to learn, but the lack of everyday practice made sustaining any meaningful conversation hard, especially when Grissom wasn't around – which toward the end had been more often than not. But she had to push back any awkwardness she might feel and try to find out if Brass's fears were indeed well-founded.

Back home, Sara parked up on the left hand-side of the drive as per habit and then went to the mailbox at the roadside to check for yesterday's mail. There were a few letters and she grabbed the pile, recognising the prison logo on a few of them, more of her correspondence to Grissom sent back to her on account of the sticky notes. It was the third lot in a row that got returned, probably the last she figured, and smiling, she once again shook her head at how stupid she'd been before slowly making her way indoors.

She dumped her keys and purse on the side table by the door and the mail on the coffee table to deal with later. Automatically she put a little background music on – she didn't feel so lonely then - and checked her emails on her phone, yet again finding nothing from Grissom. This lack of news was getting old and wearing her down. With a long sigh, she went to her bedroom, shed her clothes and headed straight to the shower. The hot water felt good on her tired body and sore neck, and as she washed her hair she felt herself relax a little. Her thoughts drifted back to Betty, and she tried to think of a reason why she would drop by.

Yet again she came up blank. And then she figured that she didn't really need a reason to call on her mother-in-law, did she? After all, she and Grissom were still married, even if they were separated. Sure, the last time they'd seen each other, Sara had been offloading some of Grissom's stuff. The older woman had been perplexed, uncomprehending, and Sara had realised far too late that Betty wasn't aware of the breakup. How much had Grissom told his mother of the separation since? If it hadn't been for her impromptu visit, Betty might have never known.

After her shower, in her robe and with a turban wrapped around her wet hair, she went back to the lounge. The music still playing, she sat down on the couch. Her cell lay on the coffee table, and reaching for it she once again checked her emails. Still nothing, and frustrated, she tossed her cell on the table before reaching for the stack of letters. She was flicking through them – the top two were indeed letters she'd sent Grissom that had been returned – when the third one, still bearing the Beaumont prison logo, stopped her in her track.

Her breath catching, she stared, wide-eyed and unbelieving, at Grissom's familiar handwriting, her eyes flicking between the spot in the middle of the envelope where he'd penned her name and address, and his name, inmate number and housing unit in the top left corner in astonishment. At last, she thought, her tears immediately spilling as with shaky hands she opened the envelope. There were several sheets neatly folded inside and Sara took them out as reverently as she would a crucial piece of evidence.

The top one was a letter, a beautiful letter she read immediately and that brought more tears to her eyes. Her heart swelled, soaring with love for him one minute and then sinking to great depths the next at what she knew he was going through. She couldn't imagine it, being locked up like that with nothing to do. He tried to play down the situation, but she could see through his words how anxious and desperate he felt. Closing her eyes, she wished with all her heart for the lockdown to end soon so he could get out of the cell and return to a semblance of a routine.

She was grateful for Manuel's presence and support because she didn't think Grissom would be coping as well without his cellmate. She wished that there was more she could do for him, but rejoiced at the fact that her correspondence brought him joy and relief. She dried her eyes, then read his letter again, frowning this time as she got to his name signed at the bottom, wondering what the other two sheets contained if his letter ended there.

Quickly, she flicked to the next page, her head inclining, the breath once again catching at what she saw. A deep frown creasing her forehead, she turned the sheet from portrait to landscape and stared open-mouthed at the pencil drawing in front of her. It wasn't signed, and even though she didn't think Grissom could draw – apart from insects and plants and leaves – she had no doubt that he had sketched the picture. It wasn't perfect, far from it, but it was in proportion and the amount of detail was mind-blowing.

Sheets in hand, she moved to the window and pulled up the blinds. Harsh sunlight immediately filled the room. She let her eyes adjust, then stared through her tears at the sight before her. The sketch was a bird's eye view of their back yard, drawn from the opposite side from where she stood now. It was as though Grissom had been sitting in the tree at the bottom of their yard she was staring at now when he had drawn the picture. She could even hear the cicadas sing their song.

The next picture left her equally speechless. It was a drawing of her bent over a microscope. She was holding her hair back with one hand while the other focused the lens on the microscope. Her lips were pulled into a soft smile; her nose was a little stubby. Instinctively, she touched at her nose and smiled. The scale was much smaller than that of the backyard picture – she only filled the very middle of the page – but the love that poured out of the rendition was undeniable and all-encompassing.

More tears fell, and she understood then that sending her these pictures was his way of thanking her for the newspaper articles, photographs and sketches _she_ included in her correspondence. Maybe it didn't seem like much, but to her it meant the world, the memories they conjured up all happy ones. The sound of her cell phone ringing suddenly startled her out of her daydream. Automatically she turned toward the device, then giving her head a shake covered the distance back to the couch and checked the caller's ID. It was Brass. She immediately connected the call.

"Jim, you'll never believe it," she half-cried, half-laughed by way of greeting.

"Sara? Sara, you're okay?"

More tears fell, and she wiped at them. It was stupid really, but she couldn't help it. She was so happy; it was like a dam had burst inside her, unleashing a torrent of tears.

"Sara, are you home?" Brass asked, sounding anxious. "Stay put. I'm coming over."

"No, Jim. You don't understand," she replied, laughing now, and sat down on the edge of the couch. "Gil wrote. He wrote me a letter. They're on lockdown. That's why he didn't reply to the email."

There was a pause. "I know," Brass said at last. "That's why I was calling. I spoke to my contact at the prison."

"He's well, Jim. He says he's safe, but that he can't say why they're on lockdown. He doesn't say how long it's going to last either."

"That's because they don't know, Sara. Even my contact couldn't tell me." He paused. "You sure you're okay?"

She wiped at her eyes. "Sure. Sorry." She took in a long breath she slowly let out. "You must think I'm going crazy."

"No. I just think you're under a lot of stress, that's all."

Brass's concern was moving.

"Sara?"

"I'm still here." She gave her head a shake, refocusing. "I was thinking…what happened at the prison must be pretty bad, right?"

Brass hesitated briefly. "It was. There was a riot in the dining hall between rival gangs." He paused again. "A guard got killed, Sara. That's why the lockdown's lasting so long."

"Oh, God," Sara gasped, and then let out a long breath. Her tears returned. "I'm so scared for him."

"Well, Gil said he was safe. So, hold on to that. Until they can transfer the ringleaders out of the prison, locked up in their cells is where they're safest."

Sara wiped at her cheeks, but her tears came regardless. "You wouldn't treat animals this way."

Brass sighed. "I know." And then after a beat, "Do you want me to come over?"

"No, it's okay. I'm okay. Just…happy to finally get news and sad because…well, you know."

"Remember I'm only a phone call away, alright?" Brass said finally. "And let me know what you decide we should do about Betty."

Grissom kept to his word, as the next day there was another letter waiting for her when she checked her mailbox. There was one the following day too, and then the next when at least he had some good news to share. The facility was still on lockdown, but a few of the restrictions had been lifted that very morning. First of all their daily shower was reinstated, he announced, sounding almost gleeful, much to her bemusement as it had never occurred to her that he wouldn't have been able to shower in the first place.

They were allowed out of their cells to go to the dining hall to take their meals and also to the day room or library for three hours in the afternoon, allowing a little more freedom of movement. Sadly there was still no recreation time in the yard, he wrote, and emails were still to be restored, as well as commissary privileges and evening classes. But apart from criticalworkers – which apparently he wasn't one of – most inmates were still not allowed back to work. It sounded like Grissom missed his job, and she could well imagine that he missed being busy and the little freedom that came when he was outdoors in the sun and fresh air.

And then when she was least expecting it, an email came. Overwhelming relief washed over her. She understood then that lockdown had been completely lifted and that Grissom's daily routine was back to normal. Hopefully his spirits would be lifted too. She wondered then whether his daily letters would stop coming. Maybe now that he was busy again, he would revert back to his old self. Pushing the dark thoughts away, she went to the lounge and moved a black pawn forward one space to D6 on the chessboard.

He'd played his move.

She'd have to think her next one carefully.


	13. Chapter 13

It was almost lights out, and Grissom lay on his back on his bed atop the scratchy cover. He'd taken his shirt off and rolled up his pant legs, which was against prison regulation, but he didn't care. The night was particularly hot and humid, the air stale and heavy, pressing down on him. His eyes wide open but unseeing, he let his mind take him to a happier place, which inevitably included Sara. Tonight the two of them were walking along a sandy beach in Costa Rica, the cool evening breeze blowing Sara's curls about her face, water lapping at their bare feet. They were holding hands. She was talking animatedly, while he listened, entranced, smitten and happy.

Breaking out of his reverie, he brought his mind back to the here and now. Or rather to the _now_ , because the _here_ was just too depressing. Sara would be getting to the lab right about now, or maybe she was already on her way to a crime scene. He wondered what case she was currently working on. He imagined her dusting and lifting prints at a B &E, finding and bagging the murder weapon at a homicide, or even pouring plaster of Paris into muddy footprints at a robbery. He wondered if she was working solo, hoped she wasn't.

At the very first opportunity after lockdown had been fully lifted, he'd headed down to the computer room to send her an email he knew would put her mind at ease. Her reply had been almost instantaneous, catching him by surprise, her joy over the news overwhelming, her accompanying chess move bold by all accounts. She was playing to win, enjoying herself with the game, and truth be told he was too. A soft smile forming on his lips, he closed his eyes and visualised the chess pieces on the imaginary board in his mind. He would have to think up a winning strategy, his reputation was at stake.

"Do you play chess, Manuel?" he asked quietly, musingly, opening his eyes as he turned toward his cellmate sitting at the table.

Manuel looked up from his schoolwork and, a perplexed look creasing his face, laughed. "No."

The disbelief in Manuel's tone and expression made Grissom's smile broaden. He relished the challenge to teach him already. His frown deepening, Manuel gave his head a shake before returning to his studying. He was to sit his English GED test soon, and much to Grissom's pride he was working hard at it.

"I know what you're thinking," Grissom said.

Manuel laughed again. "You do, do you?" he asked, glancing at Grissom.

Grissom clumsily shifted onto his side so he could look at Manuel as he spoke. His expression was dead serious now. "I do."

"Oh, and what's that, then?" Manuel asked, smiling pleasurably. "What am I thinking?"

"That Mexicans don't play chess. That chess is for rich people. Rich, white people. Educated people." He shrugged. "And maybe you're right. But I'm going to teach you anyway."

Cocking a brow, Manuel stared at Grissom with a mixture of surprise and disbelief. "Don't we need a board or something?"

Pleased that Manuel's rejoinder hadn't been an outright 'no' or 'why?', Grissom pursed his mouth thoughtfully. "Yeah, we do. And we need pieces too." Falling silent, he shuffled onto his back again, then after a minute or so threw a quick glance toward Manuel. "Leave it with me," he said. "I'll sort something out."

Manuel's eyes half-narrowed suspiciously. "Is it cos' you can't beat me at Conquian?" he asked. "That way, you can win at something?"

Grissom smiled. "Maybe."

The next day, before work, Grissom went to the computer room to email Sara his next chess move, a move he'd spent far too long pondering, then stopped by the prison commissary. The line was short, which meant that he didn't have long to wait until he was served. He didn't stop by often, didn't usually need to, but he needed to buy more stamps, some writing paper and envelopes.

The officer set down his supplies onto the counter, and Grissom showed him his prison ID so that payment could be taken from his commissary account. He picked up the first envelope and started writing his inmate number, his and his unit's names on it, while the officer diligently watched. "This might sound odd," he said when he'd done all ten envelopes, "but do you sell coloured pencils by any chance?"

The officer laughed. "You're into mindfulness, are you?"

Grissom frowned. "Mindfulness? No."

"We sell colouring books too, if you're interested. A new initiative they're trialling. Supposed to be therapeutic, or so they say. Keep the population calm and compliant." The officer shared a look that said "Like that's going to work," with his colleague that stood sentry nearby. "Needless to say, we haven't sold any."

Grissom's lip curled in a smirk. "No, thanks. Just the pencils."

"Anything else?"

Grissom paused, considering. "Hum, you don't happen to stock chess games too, do you?"

The officer pursed his face doubtfully. "Let me take a look." He typed something into his computer, arched a brow and then disappeared into the back room, only to return with a pack of ten colouring pencils and a small cardboard box containing what looked like a travel-size chess game. "That'll do you?"

"It's perfect."

While the officer charged the new purchases onto Grissom's account, Grissom picked up the pack of pencils, turned them over and his head shaking in disbelief put them back on the counter. They were kiddies' ones, no longer than his middle finger. Still, now he could add a little colour to his sketches to Sara. He pocketed his ID card and picked up his items, stashing the smaller ones into his pockets. He was hurrying back to his cell when he happened past the pay phones.

A thought occurring, he slowed down his pace, then paused altogether. Last time he'd made a call it had been to Sara the night she had found out his whereabouts. Well, he hadn't known that at the time. Brass had got a message to him, saying something was up and that she wasn't doing so well. He'd hated himself so much that night, so very much. He gave his head a shake, pushing away the painful recollections, then looked at his watch – 9.32am. Maybe he could put a call through to her now. Surprise her. He smiled. With a little luck, she'd be home from work already, or maybe she'd even had the night off.

Before he could change his mind, he joined the line of men waiting. When his turn came, he moved to the booth, placed his purchases on the shelf below the phone and picked up the receiver. Doubts crept in suddenly, and he put the phone back on the hook. What if the conversation became awkward between them, he couldn't help thinking, and emotional, or worse antagonistic? What could he say to her, and she to him, that wasn't being said in their letters?

"Come on, buddy," he muttered to himself, "It's only a phone call. Just say 'Hi' and see where it takes you."

He lifted the receiver again, and this time made himself type in the code that would link him up to the pre-paid debit account system and then slowly, deliberately, while taking slow, deep breath dialled their house phone number. It was stupid, really, feeling as anxious as he was over one phone call. The receiver was shaking in his hand as he heard the tell-tale beeping sound while the call connected. He gripped it tighter. What if she wasn't in and the machine picked up, he wondered now? Should he leave a message? And what should he say? His breathing quickened. His heart was beating so fast he could hear it echo loudly in his ears.

The phone rang once. He closed his eyes and worked at slowing his breathing down. The second ring had barely sounded before he slammed the receiver down again. He couldn't do it. He scrunched his eyes tightly shut, hating himself for how weak and pathetic he was. He hadn't been able to go through with the call last time either, not when she'd picked up, what made him think he could do it now? His trembling hands were sweaty, and he roughly wiped them up and down his pant legs. He couldn't even put a simple call through to his wife. What kind of husband did that make him?

"You're done?" a gruff voice called from right behind him.

Without meeting the man's eyes, Grissom nodded his head. Still breathing hard, he picked up his stuff and, head held low, turned on his heels and up the stairs to the corridor that housed his cell. Glad to find it empty, he quickly stowed his purchases away in his locker and moved to the sink. There he stood with his eyes cast down for a moment before he slowly lifted them to the mirror and stared at his reflection, once again hating what he was seeing.

His vision blurred as his feelings of ineptitude returned. He was useless. He was a useless coward, and a killer. Sara was being so brave, so selfless in the love and help she provided him with, sticking by him in spite of it all, and he couldn't even muster the strength of a phone call. Laughter outside the cell startled him, and lest he was seen he turned the faucet on and quickly splashed cold water over his face.

Grissom went through the motions that day with a dark cloud hanging over his head. Even his work outdoors and then at the library couldn't appease his demons as it normally might. Seeking to avoid human interaction as much as possible, he didn't go to the dining hall for lunch or dinner or spend time in the cell or in the recreation yard, managing to stay out of Manuel's way. Prison was no different from high school really; here too he could be a ghost.

When, at five pm, he turned up to the day room for mail call with the rest of the inmates, they were told that mail wouldn't be handed out to them until much later and directly to the cells. It happened sometimes when the unit was very short-staffed. There was a general grumble, but everyone seemed to take it in their stride, quickly dispersing, except for Grissom who stood there, at a loss and disgruntled about the change in routine. He had hoped that a letter from Sara would have done the trick and lifted him out of his depressed state.

Walking up to him from behind, Manuel cheerfully clapped him on the shoulder. "Where you been?" he asked, smiling widely. "I missed you in the yard."

Grissom turned toward his cellmate and stared at him blankly.

"You okay?" Manuel asked, his expression sobering.

"Sure," Grissom replied curtly, giving his head a shake, and then checking his tone, "Just disappointed about the mail, that's all."

"What you got to be disappointed about?" Manuel exclaimed cheerily. "You got more mail in a month than I got in the whole of five years."

Manuel didn't return to the cell straightaway, which Grissom was thankful for. He needed more time on his own. He'd been in funks like this before, but not for a while and not really since Sara was back in his life. He lay down on his bed, feeling hot and exhausted, angry with himself and his inability to cope. At some point, he must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew his name was being called over and over again.

"Yo, wake up, man," Manuel said, roughly shaking him by the shoulder. "Count time."

Groggy and disoriented, Grissom opened his eyes and nodded his head before slowly sitting up and fishing his ID from his pocket. The officer ticked him off the list and walked on. With a sigh, Grissom pocketed his ID and then swung his legs out over the edge of the cot. He rubbed at his face, willing the fog to lift in his brain, and then looked up, scanning his eyes over the messy table. Manuel was rummaging inside his locker.

"Did they come?" he asked.

"Who?" Manuel replied absent-mindedly. He'd found a battered Twix bar and, looking pleased with himself, was unwrapping it. He offered one finger to Grissom who quickly shook his head in refusal.

"Mail call," Grissom said.

"No. Not yet." He bit into the first finger of Twix. "Well, not here anyway."

Grissom sighed.

"I didn't see you in the chow hall earlier."

"I didn't go."

"You need to eat."

Grissom's face darkened.

"Alright, alright," Manuel said, chewing, raising both hands in surrender. "I'm not your wife; I'll stop nagging."

Getting up, Grissom slowly moved to his locker, and grabbed his glasses, his books and a pen. It was almost time for his GED tutoring. He could feel Manuel's eyes tracking his every move and it unnerved him. Without another word or a backward look, he walked out of the cell. Watching, Manuel let out a long sigh and shook his head, the concern in his features undisguised.

When, after his class was long finished and he couldn't delay his return any longer on account of lockup, Grissom headed back to the cell, Manuel was on his cot, reading a letter. Instinctively, a smile formed on his lips at the thought that there was a letter waiting for him too. He almost felt giddy with anticipation. He didn't notice the film of tears in Manuel's eyes.

"You got a letter," he stated, turning to his locker to put his books away, expecting Manuel to reply with, "There's one for you too." But Manuel remained silent. Grissom secured his locker then checked the table and then his cot for a letter from Sara. He couldn't see one. Frowning, he checked again. He glanced at Manuel, still absorbed, and felt a pang of inexplicable jealousy. "Where did you put it, huh?" he asked, not quite managing the light, casual tone he was aiming for, thinking that Manuel was playing a trick on him.

Manuel looked up, startling at seeing Grissom back, then quickly folded the letter he'd been reading, slotting it back into the envelope. Quickly wiping at his eyes with the back of his free hand, he turned away from Grissom's probing stare and clutching the envelope tightly to himself got down off his cot. "Where did I put what?" he asked belatedly, moving to his locker.

"My letter from Sara."

Pausing, Manuel threw a quick glance at Grissom. "There wasn't one, sorry."

Grissom let out a long breath. He tried to swallow his feelings of disappointment and put on a brave face, but it was hard. He frowned. "Everything okay?" he asked, finally registering Manuel's rather uncharacteristic sombreness. "You got bad news?"

Again, Manuel didn't respond. The unit's buzzer sounded announcing imminent automatic lock-up of the cell doors.

"Is it your mother?" he tried again, watching with puzzlement as Manuel stood rooted to the spot in front of his locker, the letter still in his hand. "One of your girls?"

Manuel refocused suddenly. "Nah, nothing like that." He paused again, hesitating, and then let out a long sigh before finally turning to face Grissom.

The look on Manuel's face was one Grissom had seen many times before and recognised all too well. It was the look of the guilty man, caught red-handed and with nowhere to run. Grissom's eyes narrowed, his puzzlement intensifying. "Is it from the parole board?" he then asked, nodding at the letter in Manuel's hand, even though he could see that the envelope wasn't the right size to be from the BOP. "You didn't do anything stupid to jeopardise your hearing, did you?"

Manuel shook his head. Then he lowered his eyes, and Grissom did the same, his gaze lingering on the envelope Manuel was still holding. Something about it was familiar, but without his glasses he couldn't be sure. Grissom took a step closer and then another one before his eyes widened in shock. The cell door slid shut, then locked.

"Is that mine?" he exclaimed heatedly, looking up at Manuel with disbelief.

Manuel averted his gaze without replying.

"Manuel?" Grissom tried again, his tone betraying his incredulity.

"It's not as it looks."

"How do you mean 'it's not as it looks'?" he barked, his temper getting the better of him. "In my experience, it's always as it looks."

"Not this time," Manuel replied quietly, his head shaking vehemently.

Aware that the rest of the unit had fallen silent and was probably listening in, Grissom tried to check his tone. "Are you telling me this isn't a letter from my wife? But you said—"

Manuel averted his eyes. At least, he didn't bother denying the obvious – the writing paper was the one Sara had used for all her correspondence so far and even if Grissom couldn't read the actual text he recognised her cursive handwriting on the envelope. Then thinking that maybe it was an old letter, he glanced at his locker, but it was still padlocked. He was very careful with his few belongings and he knew he hadn't left the letter lying about.

"Give it to me," he said between gritted teeth, holding a trembling hand out to Manuel. The thought that Manuel had read his private correspondence made him feel sick.

"No, man," Manuel replied, taking a step back.

Grissom made to snatch the letter, but quicker, Manuel kept it out of reach.

Grissom did a double take. "How dare you?" he almost shouted. "It's mine, give it to me!"

Manuel startled at Grissom's outburst. He looked up, stared at Grissom dead in the eyes. "It's not yours."

Grissom clenched his jaw. "You're telling me my wife wrote _you_ a letter?" He scoffed. "Don't lie to me."

Manuel bristled at the accusation. Then he smirked and shook his head, as if he knew better and Grissom's attitude right then was proving him right in some way.

"It's mine, and I want it back. Give it back to me."

Manuel held his ground. "No, not when you're angry like that."

Grissom pounced. "Angry?" he barked, grabbing Manuel by his shirt, and forcefully pinned his back to the two lockers. The younger man didn't try to defend himself. "You think that's me angry?"

Manuel cocked a brow. "So that's the real Grissom, is it?" he challenged in a whisper, holding Grissom's gaze levelly. It was clear that if Manuel wanted to, he could easily overpower Grissom, and yet he didn't. "Go on, then. Hit me. But it won't change anything, and you won't feel any better afterwards."

"Ortega?" someone called from a nearby cell. "Everything alright with you?"

"Sure," Manuel called lightly, keeping his eyes on Grissom. "Just a minor disagreement. The letter was addressed to me, alright?" he went on, quietly addressing Grissom so no one else could eavesdrop. "Not you."

Grissom felt the anger leave him as suddenly as it had flared. He had been so close to hitting Manuel, his only true friend and ally in these four walls. Averting his gaze shamefully, he loosened his grip on the younger man and turned away. Keeping his eyes lowered, he withdrew his hand completely and stepped away. Head shaking, Manuel pushed past Grissom and sat down at the table.

"I'm sorry," Grissom mumbled, and giving his head a long shake dropped down onto the edge of his cot.

"It's the first time she writes to me, alright," Manuel said in a sigh. "It came right out of the blue, believe me." He gave a sad chuckle. "And if you'd asked me instead of immediately accusing me of theft, I'd have given it to you to read straightaway."

Grissom shook his head in disbelief, then clamped his jaw shut and covered his face with his hand, vainly trying to keep his tears away.

"There," Manuel said, tossing the letter onto the edge of the cot by Grissom's leg, "Read it for yourself, if you don't believe me."

Grissom didn't move, didn't reach for the letter. He felt so much shame and self-disgust. Instinct told him that Manuel was telling the truth and that he'd overreacted, but his anger had built so fast that he hadn't been able to curb it.

"I'm sorry," he said again, filled with regret now, sadness and guilt. "I didn't know. She didn't say anything."

"She says she didn't tell you because she didn't want to make things awkward between us," Manuel said, and scoffed. "She left it up to me to tell you, if I chose to."

Grissom's ears pricked, and he looked up.

"Go on," Manuel said, nodding his head at the letter, "Read it. She says none of what she wrote is secret."

Grissom shook his head. "It's not my letter to read," he said, disconsolate.

Manuel reached for the letter from Grissom's cot and taking it out of the envelope proceeded to read it aloud in a hushed, hesitant voice.

 _Manuel,_

 _My name is Sara. I'm Gil's wife. Grissom? You don't know me, obviously, but he talks about you a lot in his letters – good things – and I feel like I know you already. I hope you don't mind my writing to you, like this, out of the blue. Truth be told, I've been wanting to for a while now; I just wasn't sure I should. I hope I haven't made a mistake. Grissom is a private man, and...well, we'll see._

 _Anyways, I just wanted to thank you. Your friendship and support mean a lot to my husband, and they mean a lot to me too. I'm grateful for your presence in his life and you looking out for him the way you do. You may think what you do for him – for us – is not much, but to me it is everything. Grissom is a man of few words, but I know he is grateful too. He thinks highly of you, of the way you're trying to turn your life around despite everything, for when you come out._

 _Don't feel like you need to keep this letter a secret from him. It's up to you whether you tell him or not. I don't want to cause any tension between the two of you. And if you choose to tell him and he gets angry, then tell him he should be angry with me, not you. I'll…deal with it._

 _And if you want to write back, that's fine too._

 _Sara._

By the time he finished, Manuel had tears in his eyes. He looked up from the letter, and Grissom bowed his head in shame.

"I'm sorry," he said again, calmer, chastised, unable to look Manuel in the eye.

"No one's ever written me a letter like that," Manuel said, his voice quiet, choked up with emotion, and when Grissom said nothing, "You need to get help. I thought I could do it. I thought I could help you, but I can't."

"You do help me."

Manuel shook his head.

"I'm sorry," Grissom said again, for want of something better. "I don't know what came over me just then. I just saw red and…"

"Well, that's the thing, right? You don't… _just_ see red."

Grissom sighed. "It was a one-off. It won't happen again. It's just that when I saw that the letter was from Sara, I—"

"—saw red." Manuel nodded. "I get it."

"It's just…I haven't been feeling all that good today."

"All that _well_ ," Manuel corrected softly, and they smiled. "It's more than just today, and you know it. You need to get help. Proper help."

Grissom gave a slow nod. "I know."

Manuel nodded at the letter in his hand. "If not for yourself, then do it for her. I know I would."


	14. Chapter 14

"You're sure you don't want to come to breakfast?" Morgan asked.

Slipping her sunglasses on, Sara veered off toward her car. "Thanks," she called over her shoulder, rooting in her purse for her car keys. "But I've somewhere to be."

"Oh, that's right," Finn said, "the invisible boyfriend."

Head shaking in disbelief, Sara pressed the key fob to unlock her car and turned toward her friends. "Some other time, I promise."

"Yeah," Finn said, her mouth twisting in a sulky pout, "that's what you said last time."

Sara paused with her hand on the car handle. "Tomorrow. I'll come out with you two singletons tomorrow, alright?"

Finn's grin softened into a sincere smile. "It'll be nice catching up properly. It's been a while."

"I know," Sara said, contrite. "I'm sorry." Finn appeared crass and insensitive on the surface but Sara knew she genuinely cared. And Finn was right; since Grissom was back in her life she'd hardly spent any time outside of work with her friends. She checked her watch, her eyes widening. "I really got to go."

Finn and Morgan laughed, then waved and turned on their heels, headed to their own cars. Sara knew she'd most likely be the main topic of conversation over breakfast, but there wasn't much she could do about that. Behind the wheel, she put the key in the ignition and, eager to get going, fastened her seat belt. Betty wasn't expecting a visit, and she wanted to catch her mother-in-law before she went out. She was about to start the car up when her phone beeped with a text message. Frowning, she fished it out of her purse and smiled; it was from Finn.

 _Enjoy your date_

 _I will. Don't you worry about that_

Her reply was a lie of course, because she knew that, whichever way she looked at it, there would be nothing enjoyable about hers and Betty's meeting, but it was better that Finn and Morgan thought she had a boyfriend than knew the truth. Pressing send, she looked through her window toward where Finn was parked. Finn shook her head, presumably at what she was reading in the text, then turned toward her and wriggling her fingers pulled out of her parking space. Sara's smile grew then faded. She didn't like deceiving her friends the way she was doing, but what choice did she have?

Automatically, she turned on the Cellular Data on her phone and checked her email account, hoping Grissom had got his next chess move to her. He hadn't. Normally she got an email from him every week day at about this time, but not for the last two days. She hoped it was to do with server problems at the prison, rather than another lockdown, but feared it was because he'd found out about the letter she'd sent Manuel and was angry.

She probably would be too, if the roles were reversed and he'd gone behind her back like she had done. She was still getting letters from him though, but figured they'd been written and sent before Manuel had received hers. She dreaded the moment when they stopped coming altogether, hoped it wouldn't get to that. She'd fully expected him to be angry, but writing to Manuel had been something she felt she had to do. Manuel was so central to Grissom's life and wellbeing right then, and she hoped he would continue to look out for him and help him in ways she couldn't.

She'd looked into putting together a care package for Grissom, and maybe start to mend fences that way. There was a website linked to the prison she could use to buy food and drink items, paperbacks and magazines, or even clothes that would be delivered directly to him. Family members were allowed one package per quarter not totalling more than $60. She'd buy enough for him to share with Manuel. And if he was still angry with her, he could just give it all away or use it as currency.

With a sigh, she started the car and was soon on her way, manoeuvring the Honda through the not-so-familiar streets of The Lakes in West Vegas, remembering very clearly the last time she'd driven the route to Betty's apartment complex. It had been after Grissom's phone call a year and a half ago, when he had put such a painful and untimely end to their marriage **.** At her lowest ebb, she'd cleared up the house of most of his things, taking some to Goodwill and the rest to Betty's, only keeping his most valuable possessions in the hope that one day he'd come back for them.

After pulling in the complex's car lot, Sara eased the Honda into the nearest available parking spot and cut the engine. She looked toward the low building anxiously and then taking a calming breath closed her eyes and tried to focus her thoughts on what she'd come to do, on remembering all the signs she'd looked up and practised. She'd be fine as long as Betty stuck to the script – provided she was in, of course.

"Come on, Sara," she told herself. "It can't be worse than the last time you came round."

Outside the main glass doors, Sara pushed her finger to the intercom and slid her sunglasses to the top of her head, only belatedly remembering to turn toward the tiny camera that fed the picture back to Betty. She tried a smile. A buzzer sounded. The door clicked open and Sara pushed on it hard, letting herself in. Forgoing the elevator, she took the stairs to Betty's first floor apartment. The door opened before she got there, and looking a mixture of surprise and puzzlement Betty stepped out. Grissom's mother looked thinner, tired and frail suddenly, which despite her age she had never done in the past, and Sara wondered whether hers and Brass's concerns about her health were founded.

"Sara," she signed quickly. "Why are you here? Is everything okay?" Puzzlement turned to worry as she waited, a million questions on her face, for Sara's reply.

Remembering that facial expressions were as much part of sign language as the signs themselves, Sara mustered a smile and nodded her head, then lifted her hands to form the signs she'd been carefully rehearsing for days now. "There's been a spate of burglaries in the area and I thought I'd come to check on you, make sure everything was okay."

Betty's eyes narrowed, before she flicked them from Sara's hands back up to her face. "Everything's fine," she signed, holding Sara's gaze levelly, probingly. There was something in the older woman's guarded look that told Sara that she'd seen straight through the lie.

Sara looked away uncomfortably and, with a sigh, Betty glanced over her shoulder and invited Sara into the apartment. Following Betty in, Sara closed the door after her and hovered there uncertainly, unsure whether to continue with her script and keep up the pretence.

"You're not here because of some burglaries, are you?" Betty signed decisively.

After a brief moment of hesitation, Sara slowly shook her head and tried to put her thoughts into more signs, different signs from the ones she'd prepared. Stalling, she motioned toward the couch and looking very reluctant all of a sudden Betty nodded her head before following Sara to sit down.

"I'm here because of Gil," Sara signed slowly, deciding to cut to the chase.

Betty's hand rose to her mouth, as if bracing herself for bad news, before she nodded her head, indicating for Sara to continue. There was fear in her eyes, pain and compassion too. It was clear she had questions, but she didn't ask them, letting Sara proceed at her own slow speed. Once again cursing her lack of fluency in ASL, Sara looked down at her hands, then licked her lips nervously and made herself carry on.

"He has been emailing you news," she went on cautiously.

Narrowed eyes flicking between Sara's hands and her face, Betty once again nodded her head.

"When you didn't reply to the last email, we worried something had happened—"

"To me?" Betty sighed when Sara faltered.

Sara nodded her head. She lifted her index finger to her head. "We thought that maybe you'd fallen ill."

Betty nodded that she understood. "We?" she then queried, her gaze narrowing quizzically. "You and Gil?"

Sara lowered her eyes, hesitating. She had a choice: perpetuate Grissom's lies or do what he should have done from the start and tell the whole truth. Betty would need an ally, someone she could confide in about Grissom, and Sara could do with another one. She knew, first hand, how tough learning the truth of what happened and the extent of Grissom's deceit would be. Opting for the second option, she looked back up and at Betty straight in the eyes and shook her head in reply.

Her hands poised in mid-air as if about to talk, Betty's gaze hardened, then averted uncertainly. "I didn't write back to him because I didn't want to carry on the lie," she then signed firmly, almost angrily, her hands dropping suddenly as she waited for Sara's response.

Sara's brow furrowed as she replayed the signs and tried to make sense of the older woman's words. Surely, Betty couldn't already know, could she? How would she have found out? And why not come forward, she couldn't help wondering? More crucially maybe, how would Grissom react when _he_ found out?

Betty watched Sara carefully, expectantly all the while. Then she sighed and signed for her to wait. Standing up, she walked through to the bedroom, returning a moment later with a laptop she placed on the coffee table in front of Sara.

"I looked him up," Betty signed when Sara lifted puzzled eyes to her mother-in-law. The latter quickly sat down before opening the laptop and when prompted typing in her password. She connected to the internet and opened a bookmarked page. An article from the Port Arthur News loaded. Sara watched, baffled and uncomprehending, until the penny finally dropped and her gaze snapped back to Betty's face.

Betty turned to look at Sara and gave a trembling smile. Her eyes shone with a film of tears. "But you already knew, didn't you?" she asked with shaky hands, vaguely motioning toward the laptop with her head.

Sara swallowed, and her eyes flicking to the article slowly nodded her head. "He's in…" and then finger spelling, "T-E-X-A-S."

Betty gave a quick nod. "In prison," she signed, two tears spilling, trickling down the side of her face.

Struggling to keep her own emotion at bay, Sara nodded her head, then reached for Betty's hands and gave them a gentle squeeze. She had never seen her mother-in-law anything but strong and stoic in the past, and she felt ill equipped to help her now. More of Betty's tears spilled, and the older woman withdrew her hands from Sara's before removing her glasses to wipe her eyes. Instead, she covered her face with her hands and turned away. Her sobs came quietly at first, then more forcefully, while Sara sat, uncomfortable and yet again uncertain as to what to do.

Sharing fully in mother-in-law's misery, she found herself reaching out her hand to her shoulder and patting gently. It wasn't that long ago that she had found out herself and her pain and heartbreak were still raw. She understood all too well the anger and frustration mixing with the love and compassion Betty would be instinctively feeling for her son. She wished she was confident enough to turn Betty round and give her a hug, a shoulder to cry on, but their relationship had always been, if not fraught, a little distant and she didn't dare lest she made Betty feel awkward and uncomfortable.

She dropped her hand and looked away, her eyes landing on the open laptop in front of them and the police mugshot of Grissom's battered face included in the online news report staring back at her. Feeling herself well up at seeing him looking so depressed and beat-up, she shifted forward and closed the lid on the laptop before reaching for the box of tissue on a nearby side table and placing them on the coffee table within Betty's reach. At a loss, she pushed to her feet and moved to the kitchen where she set about making them a cup of tea. There would be time for questions later.

She filled the kettle with water and put it on to boil, then looked through the cabinets, finding mugs and some passionflower tea bags. When she returned to the lounge with two steaming mugs, Betty was still sitting on the couch but she'd composed herself. Her eyes were dry behind her glasses, if still red and raw, her deep sadness unconcealed. Sara gave a tentative smile the older woman returned weakly and cautiously carried the two mugs over to the coffee table. Betty moved the laptop to the side before reaching for coasters and Sara set down the mugs.

Smiling her thanks, Betty reached for the mug with shaky hands and took a careful sip. Sara sat back down, slowly following suit, hoping the tea would be to Betty's liking, wishing she knew more signs to express herself and help her mother-in-law deal with her grief.

"Thank you," Betty signed one-handed, and for want of a better response Sara smiled again. She took another sip before setting the mug down and, turning fully toward Sara, lifted her hands to talk. But her words came far too quickly for Sara to understand. Betty's face filled with pain again, her eyes brimming with fresh tears, and Sara raised her hands, covering Betty's shaking ones, stopping her.

"I'm sorry," she said aloud, looking at Betty straight in the eyes, then belatedly made a fist she rotated over her heart. "But I don't understand."

Nodding, Betty kept her hands still.

"Is there someone I can call maybe?" Sara tried hesitantly. "Someone who can sign better than I can and could interpret for us?" But as soon as she'd formed the signs, she knew what the answer would be. Betty would want to keep Grissom's secret too, not necessarily for own sake, but for his. "Gil didn't tell me either," she offered when the silence and stillness became too much, hoping her words could be of some comfort. "I only just found out too."

Betty gave a sad smile and nod.

"It didn't make the national news," Sara went on. "So not very many people know. Jim made sure—"

"Jim?"

Sara paused. "Captain Brass?" she finger-spelt. "Gil's friend. You and him met—"

Recognition flashed across the older woman's eyes and she nodded her head.

"Gil's emails to you come through to Jim," Sara went on hesitantly, her signing clumsy and approximate. "He forwards them from a made-up account."

Betty frowned, and Sara sighed, frustrated with herself and her lack of signing **.** Standing up, Betty moved over to the sideboard, opened a drawer and returned with a pad and pen. Sara smiled and shook her head; now why hadn't she thought of that sooner?

Taking the proffered pen and pad, Sara wrote down about the made-up account Brass had set up. She knew it would hurt Betty's feelings further, but, at least, then she would know the whole truth. It would be easier in the long run, especially when a decision about telling Grissom - or not as the case may be - that Betty knew would have to be made.

"It all makes sense now," Betty wrote back.

Sara frowned.

"It all seemed fake," Betty wrote, explaining. "Never a video call or a visit – which I blamed on you and the breakup of your marriage." She looked up and offered Sara an apologetic smile. "His messages were always so short and there'd never be any pictures of places and bugs and stuff – not like before." She stopped and looked over at Sara, signing, "I looked up the expedition he was supposed to be on. I couldn't find it." She waved her hand at the laptop. "So then I looked him up, and came across the article."

Sara's gaze was narrowed, intent on Betty's hands and face, trying to understand.

Betty's hands dropped suddenly, her eyes once again blurring. "I wish he had told me," she signed, her head shaking desolately, "So that I could have been there for him."

Sara's smile was sad. "Me too."

After a moment's pause, Betty stroked her hand to Sara's cheek and nodded her head that she understood they were in the same boat. "Have you seen him?" she then signed, perking up a little. "Gil, I mean. Did you go to see him in prison?"

Sara nodded her head slowly, then lifted her index finger in the air. "Once."

"How is he?"

Sara lifted her right hand and wiggled it in a so-so gesture, but Betty's facial expression told her she was waiting for more. Unsure where to start so as not to distress Betty further, Sara quickly reached for the pen and paper again, turning to a new sheet and writing that he had his ups and downs.

She explained that she had to pull some strings to force her way to see him, and that he didn't want any more visits, from her or anyone, and that sadly the choice was his. Then she turned toward Betty and explained with her hands, as best she could, that they wrote to each other, letters and emails, and that she hoped that that way, in time, they could slowly rebuild their relationship – their marriage, she finally signed, clasping both hands comfortably together, with her right hand on top.

Betty smiled wistfully before her gaze turned distant and she gave a thoughtful nod of the head. Then her shoulders slumped and she bowed her head, letting out a long tired breath, as if suddenly it was too much to bear.

Sara put her hand on her mother-in-law's arm to get her attention and searched for more signs to express that she wasn't alone, that they'd get through this together, but frustratingly the signs eluded her.

Betty smiled sadly, then patted Sara's hand affectionately, showing she understood what Sara was trying to say and do, that she was grateful for Sara's presence and all her effort at explaining. Then she touched the fingers of her right hand to her forehead and brought them down, changing the shape of her hand to form the letter Y. She was asking, "Why?" Betty lifted her hands to sign more, only to drop them again powerlessly.

"Why he couldn't tell us?" Sara offered.

Betty nodded. "We're his family," she signed vehemently. "We could have helped him!"

Now, that Sara had prepared the answer to. "Shame?" she signed back. "Pride?" She smiled sadly. "But to protect us too," she went on slowly, carefully, "Because he loves us." She paused to give Betty time to take it all in. "He feels guilty for what he did, and that guilt is—" again, she faltered, once again searching for signs that she didn't know.

Betty's hands remained still, neatly clasped on her lap, and Sara felt compelled to fill the silence and defend Grissom further.

"He's not doing well, Betty," she went on.

Holding the older woman's gaze, she tapped her forehead a few times. Then she made the sign for very sad, wanting to say depressed but not knowing how to. Again, Betty didn't respond. She just closed her eyes wearily and Sara stopped trying to explain.

"Are you okay?" she signed, leaning forward to be seen, when Betty reopened her eyes.

Betty gave her a tired nod, before pinching her lips and bowing her head as a fresh wave of tears overwhelmed her. This time, Sara didn't hesitate. She took both Betty's trembling hands and gently turning her body around on the couch pulled her into her arms while they both cried for the man they loved.

"What do you think I should do?" Betty signed, as long afterwards they stood in the kitchen while she made them fresh mugs of tea to replace the ones that had been left to go cold. "Should I write to him? Tell him I know?"

Sara pondered her reply carefully before raising her shoulders in a shrug. "It's up to you." She moved to the lounge, quickly returning with the pen and pad where she wrote down the name of the prison and of Grissom's unit, the address and his inmate number.

Betty turned her hands palm up and moved them up and down, weighing her options. "I'm not sure. I don't want to make things worse for him, but I want him to know I know so I can be there for him."

"Then tell him," Sara signed, with conviction.

Betty nodded. "Once everything's out in the open, we can start to deal with it, even if it's hard. We can start to heal. Keeping your head in the sand…" she dropped her hands and shook her head sadly. "I would like to go see him."

"It's not that easy." Reaching for the pad, Sara gave up on signing, and wrote instead, "He'd have to agree to the visit and have your name approved by the prison first."

Betty's eyes narrowed, and looking up she pointed at Sara.

Her heartbreak undisguised, Sara shook her head. "He doesn't want me to visit again."

Betty held Sara's gaze a long time before she smiled. "Then together, we need to get him to change his mind."


	15. Chapter 15

"Grissom," Officer Conrad called, "we got to close up early today. Sorry."

Grissom had been so lost in his own thoughts that he refocused his attention with a start. "How early?"

"Ten minutes."

Checking the time on his watch, he gave a nod of the head that he understood. With a sigh, he closed the book he'd been reading – or not as the case was – and after removing his glasses rubbed at his tired eyes.

"You okay?"

Unsure whether Officer Conrad had addressed him or not, he raised his head and looked around. He was on his own. "Sure," he said, bewildered by the question.

The officer's eyes flicked from Grissom's face to the book on the table and then back up again.

Frowning, Grissom glanced at the book cover and forced a smile. "It's just…a little background reading," he lied. "For one of my classes."

Officer Conrad pursed his face, accepting Grissom's answer at face value, and went on his way. With another sigh, Grissom picked up the book and inspected the cover: _Coping with Depression and Other Mood Disorders_. Even though he had been sitting in the library in front of the book for the last hour or so, he couldn't remember a single word he'd read. He felt so tired and listless recently that nothing held his focus for more than a few minutes. Standing up, he folded his glasses and walked over to the shelf, slotting the book back where he'd found it.

Depression, he thought. Could that really be it?

Back in his cell, he put his glasses away in his locker and paced around a little. Restless, he took his glasses out again, then grabbed a sheet of paper and black pen and sat down at the table. Sara's letters had been coming all week, further adding to his guilt, and he wanted to write to her, had been wanting to for days, but he'd lost his momentum and the words simply wouldn't come. Or rather the words that came were not the words he wanted to send her. They showed a man he despised, not the man he wanted her to love.

He was so angry, felt so betrayed and so raw. What right did she have to go behind his back and write to Manuel? On some level, he understood her motives, but she didn't understand the dynamics of his and Manuel's relationship. Manuel was _his_ friend in prison, not hers. Manuel belonged to his life here within these four walls, while she belonged to his other life, the one on the outside. The one he'd desperately tried to keep separate, but hadn't managed to.

How dare she mix up the two like that? Those two worlds should have run concurrently, not crossed. How else was he supposed to put everything behind him and move on, try to reintegrate into society and resume his former life, after he'd served his time? She'd included a return address on the envelope, she'd had to, as per prison rules. What if Manuel replied, he couldn't help thinking? Grissom was fairly sure he hadn't yet, but he feared it was only a matter of time before he did. Life in prison was a lonely one, and a friend on the outside was precious and valued.

It was plain to see how touched Manuel had been by Sara's words, how deeply moved. He knew he shouldn't begrudge his friends those feelings, how Sara's words had the potential to change his outlook on life, but he did. Sara was his, and he didn't want to share the only good thing in his life. She was _his_ private sanctuary, the only beauty in his world. And then there was the worry, the ever-present worry, that someone would eventually find out what he used to do for a living. What if Manuel looked her up when he was set free? What if he found out the truth? What then?

He rubbed his face and bowed his head, hating himself for feeling that way, remaining like so for a long moment until his thoughts became too much, until the silence all around him, once highly prized and soothing, became heavy and unbearable, painfully pressing down on his chest until he felt like he couldn't breathe. Struggling for air, he stood up abruptly and hurried out of the cell and down the metal stairs to the ground floor, bumping into other inmates on the way, ignoring the looks of puzzlement and the shouts of "Oi, watch where you're going" in his haste to get out of the building.

Not noticing the guard standing near the access door, he stood motionless for a few seconds with his eyes closed while he took great big gulps of hot humid air. Someone walked up to him from behind and, his eyes reopening, he instinctively moved to the side to let them pass. The recreation yard was far too small to accommodate the thousand plus men competing for space, especially at the weekends, and despite the punishing heat and lack of shade it was packed; men exercising, lifting weights, doing crunches or pull-ups, others standing or sitting at tables, playing games or talking in small groups. Two basketball games were in full swing, the voices of the players loud, commanding.

Normally he couldn't stand the crowds, all the noise and bustle, but right then he needed to lose himself in them. Manuel was one of the men standing at a table to his right, watching a card game in progress, laughing. His outburst had strained the easy camaraderie they used to share and since then, apart from when they were locked up, they'd hardly spent any of their downtime together. Manuel was more guarded now, more watchful and wary, more often than not keeping himself to himself and it saddened him.

Grissom averted his gaze to another group of inmates gathered around the freestanding punching bag. From his vantage point, he could hear the regular slapping of gloves against pad, the accompanying grunts of pain and effort. It stuck a chord with him. Slowly he made his hands into fists, then clenched and unclenched his fingers a few times, before looking down at them, realisation dawning. When he glanced up again, he found himself looking straight at Manuel watching him.

Grissom nodded his head in acknowledgement before he looked away and started walking in the opposite direction. Joining the small crowd of spectators, he watched Armstrong hit the punching bag in a steady rhythm. The man was strong, he'd grant him that. A few heads turned toward Grissom before turning back with disinterest. After a while, Armstrong slowed down his boxing, then stopped altogether. Breathing hard, he turned toward his audience, looking smug and pleased with himself.

He slipped off the battered gloves, then took off his bandanna and used it to wipe the sweat off his face and neck before looking over toward where Grissom stood, showing surprise at seeing him there. Holding his gaze levelly, Grissom stepped forward, wanting a turn. Another inmate, some kid Grissom hadn't come across before, moved forward at the same time, ready to take the gloves from Armstrong. Grissom was quicker, reaching for them first.

"What the fuck you think you're doing, old man?"

His gaze narrowing, Grissom paused and then turned toward his rival. "What did you just call me?"

Pushing his chest out, the kid took a step forward toward Grissom. Looking him up and down, he sneered. "Old man."

Standing his ground, Grissom clamped his jaw shut and stared at the other inmate's gaze darkly, steadily.

"So what you going to do about it, huh?" the kid challenged, his hands opening, his fingers wiggling in a 'come on then' motion.

The corner of Grissom's mouth lifted in a smirk. "You think you're so tough."

Head shaking in disbelief, he looked over at Armstrong, silently asking, "Is he one of yours?" Then he grabbed the gloves from him and slipping them on moved to take his place in front of the punching bag. Unconcerned, he started hitting the punch bag, gently at first and then more powerfully, soon getting into his stride. It felt good to be hitting something, use up some of his negative energy. He could feel some of the tension and stress he'd been feeling for the past week leave him already.

The other inmate's gaze narrowed, his shoulders squaring up at Grissom's blatant disrespect. Insulted, he looked around at the rest of the onlookers, then over at Armstrong and opened his hands again, asking, "So what? Are we just going to let him muscle in like that?" He took a step toward Grissom still steadily punching at the bag, as if wanting to stop him, but holding him back by the shoulder Armstrong shook his head. A correctional officer ambled past, one hand on his radio, the other on the pepper spray can on his belt, his expression severe as he scanned his eyes over the faces.

"Everything alright here?" the officer asked cautiously.

Keeping his head down, Grissom boxed on. Wanting to keep out of trouble, most of the crowd dispersed, quickly dissolving into various other groups. Armstrong and his associate turned away from the officer, but remained close by, watching Grissom from the corner of their eyes.

"Hey," Manuel called, suddenly coming up from behind, "you need a partner?"

Grissom stopped just long enough to glance at Manuel before he gave the bag another punch. Taking that as assent, Manuel tied his bandanna over his shaven head before moving behind the punching bag. He waited for Grissom to pause to take a firm hold of the bag with both hands and putting his body's weight against it kept it steady for Grissom.

"So now, you're picking fights?" he asked in a scoff of disbelief when Armstrong and his associate walked away, seemingly losing interest.

A frown creasing his brow, Grissom stopped boxing. Manuel nodded toward Armstrong now hovering near the weight lifting equipment.

Grissom followed Manuel's gaze and shrugged. "He owed me," he said. "So I collected."

Manuel frowned. "You got to be careful. These guys are dangerous."

Grissom shrugged again. "I'm not scared of them."

"Yeah. That's what I'm worried about."

Grissom beat the life out of the punching bag, putting all his anger and frustration into it, until he had nothing left to give. His arm and shoulder muscles ached, his hands were sore, most probably bruised, but the physical pain had lifted the fog in his head. Breathing hard, he slowed down to a stop then doubled over as he tried to catch his breath.

"You feeling better?" Manuel asked.

Grissom managed a smile. "Yeah."

"It's the endorphins, right?"

Grissom's smile broadened. "Right."

Manuel nodded to himself. Still breathing hard, Grissom pulled off the gloves and held them out to Manuel. Wishing he'd remembered to bring some water, he lifted his sweat-soaked shirt and wiped his face and head with it. He and Manuel swapped places, Grissom holding the bag steady while Manuel hit at it. He didn't have the same anger Grissom did. Afterwards, they headed to the water fountain, drank the tepid water and made their way back indoors. It felt as hot and humid inside, but at least they were out of the sun.

"So what now?" Manuel asked. "Dayroom, or back to the cell?"

Grissom shook his head. "I'm hungry."

Manuel laughed, then clapped Grissom on the shoulder. "Welcome to my world, amigo."

At the weekends, they only ate two meals, breakfast at some unfathomably early hour and then dinner between four and five pm. They joined the food line, grabbed a tray and plastic spoon and waited.

"Oh, come on, man," Manuel exclaimed, when advancing down the line his turn came. It wasn't the cup of rice that had been tipped onto his tray that had brought about the moan, but the pool of undistinguishable beige gloop in a big serving dish he was staring at. "What _is_ this crap?"

"Says chicken on the menu," Grissom remarked deadpan.

"You don't want it?" the kitchen worker asked,his half-filled cup poised over Manuel's tray ready to pour its load.

"I want it," Manuel replied in a sigh, and the kitchen worker tipped the cup over, dumping chicken stew directly onto the rice.

Grissom nodded his head and the kitchen worker repeated the action onto Grissom's tray. Moving along, they helped themselves to two slices of white bread, an apple, a cupful of milk and one of coffee, if you could call it that. Still, it was hot and it would help the chicken go down more easily. They showed their ID cards before moving off the line, searching for two free spaces preferably in a corner away from all the noise, chatter and sporadic shouting around them.

"I got the dates for the GED," Manuel said, shovelling a mouthful of rice and chicken into his mouth and swallowing without chewing, "It's happening in three weeks' time." Shaking his head, he bit into his first slice of bread. "I'll never pass."

"Sure you will," Grissom replied, quickly putting food in his mouth so he wouldn't have to taste it. Eating in prison was about sustenance, not enjoyment. "You been working your butt off. You'll be fine. It's all about confidence," he went on when Manuel kept silent and shovelled more food into his mouth.

Manuel made a musing sound. "Maybe," he said, clearly unconvinced.

"Just focus on your long-term goal," Grissom coached.

Manuel gave a wry smile. "I'm not like you, man. You got a home, a wife, a job. Something to look forward to."

Grissom averted his gaze uncomfortably.

"Me, I got nothing."

"You're still young," Grissom said. "Your life's in front of you. Sure you made mistakes, got in with the wrong crowd—"

Manuel put more food into his mouth. "I was the wrong crowd."

"But you're changing all that."

Manuel sighed. "What if I fuck it up? What if they ask something I don't know?" He shrugged. "I've never been good at school. Tests and shit. I mean, I don't recall ever passing one."

"Well, that's about to change."

Unconvinced, Manuel pursed his face.

"What brought this on, huh?" Grissom asked, picking up his cup of coffee.

"Nothing." Manuel lowered his eyes to his tray. Then he put his spoon down and looked at Grissom straight in the eye. "When I get out of here, I'm going to go home to my mama's, to my old neighbourhood, with the old crowd. I just think…that the odds aren't stacked in my favour, that's all."

This time, Grissom didn't have a comeback. Manuel was right, the odds were stacked against him, but it was up to him to change that.

"I mean, what job could I do? I can mop floors, that's about it."

"I'm not saying it won't be easy, but surely that's better than—"

"Being here?"

Grissom acknowledged the point with a nod. "Or what you had before."

"It's easy in here. Everything's done for us. We get fed for starters."

"What, this sludge?" Grissom scoffed, causing Manuel to smile.

"But seriously," the younger man went on, sobering up, "Staying out of trouble in here is a damn sight easier than out there." He looked around the hall, making sure they weren't being overheard. "And here, I've got you."

Grissom registered a look of surprise at the candour of Manuel's words before once again averting his eyes uncomfortably. "Let's just…get through the tests," he said. "And see what happens."

They finished their meal, pocketing the apple for later, and after a quick pit stop in their cell to grab their wash kits and clean uniforms they headed to the shower block. The shower was much needed, doing wonders on Grissom's aching muscles, but far too short. Grissom got back to the cell first. He was putting his wash kit back in his locker when he noticed the chess set he'd purchased but never used. Smiling, he got it out, then cleared the table and set it up.

"What's this?" Manuel asked when he got back.

"A chess board."

"I know that." Manuel removed the padlock on his locker and opened it. "Where did you get it?"

Grissom smiled. "Commissary. So, huh, you want to try it?"

Manuel put his stuff away and turning toward Grissom paused. He was looking pleased, and Grissom found that he was too. He told Manuel the pieces' names and showed him how they moved and what they did, then explained about capturing and protecting the king from checkmate.

Manuel made a musing sound. "So, let me get this straight," he said, picking up Grissom's king. "You win when you capture the other dude's king."

"That's right. When you get him in checkmate."

"That's when he can't move without being captured."

"That's right. But you got to protect your own king at the same time."

Manuel was nodding. "I think I got it. Alright," he went on, rubbing his hands together in gleeful anticipation, "I'm going to whip your ass."

Grissom gave a hearty laugh, the first one all week. Manuel made his first move and Grissom followed suit. They'd been paying for a couple of minutes, Grissom coaching Manuel all the while, when Manuel stopped suddenly. He looked up and his expression serious held Grissom's gaze levelly.

"I've been thinking," he said.

Grissom smiled. "Goes with the game."

"No. I—" Manuel sighed. "It's nothing to do with the game."

Grissom's smile morphed into a puzzled frown.

"I just wanted you to know that I'm not going to write back to your wife."

Grissom registered a look of surprise.

"I mean, I think it took cojones what she did, you know, writing to me, a felon. I'm supposed to be scum, right?"

"You're not scum," Grissom defended.

Manuel gave an easy shrug. "Anyways, it meant a lot to me what she did. And since I'm not going to tell her, then I want you to do it."

Not liking much where the conversation was headed, Grissom let out a long breath.

"You haven't written to her all week."

"Are we done with the game?" he asked, his foul mood returning.

"No. I was just—"

Looking up abruptly, Manuel stopped talking. Frowning, Grissom turned to see what had caught his attention and found Armstrong standing at their open cell door. He sat up, immediately on alert, and wondered if Armstrong had heard what they were talking about. Armstrong looked straight at Manuel and motioned for him to beat it. Grissom turned toward Manuel who was hesitating and nodded his head. Manuel held his gaze briefly, silently asking if he was sure and telling him he'd only be outside and to holler if he needed help. Then he stood up and without looking at Armstrong stepped past him and out of the cell.

"What can I do for you?" Grissom asked, feigning a casual tone, hoping Armstrong was after another favour, but knowing deep down that it wasn't the case. He'd acted rashly in the recreation yard that afternoon when he'd pushed in, stupidly even, but he wasn't about to apologise. That was not how things were done on the inside, not if you wanted to keep the upper hand. Keeping his eyes steadfast on Armstrong, Grissom shifted onto Manuel's stool, and Armstrong sat down on the seat Grissom had just vacated. At least now, they were level.

"You walked a thin line today."

Grissom kept his eyes on Armstrong but remained silent.

"Dino," Armstrong went on, "He's new here. He don't know the rules yet. He wants to show he's tough, and maybe he's going about it the wrong way. Still, he's pissed. You disrespected him."

Grissom scoffed. "I disrespected him? Tell Dino that he needs to learn to show respect to his elders."

"Oh, I agree." Armstrong smiled a smile that showed a few missing teeth. As he talked, he kept stealing glances at the chess board in front of him. "I stepped in this time, helped him see the errors of his way. He understands his mistake."

Grissom gave a wry smile. "And that puts me in your debt, does it?"

Armstrong opened his hands, acquiescing.

Standing, Grissom held his stare coolly. "I don't think so. I'm my own man here. I don't answer to anyone."

Armstrong pursed his mouth, then he picked up Grissom's rook, moved it forward four squares and pushed to his feet. He was a whole head taller than Grissom, and a good hundred pounds heavier. "Just watch yourself."

"I always do." And as Armstrong turned to leave, "Heard from the parole board yet?"

Pausing, Armstrong looked back at Grissom. His eyes were narrowed, his face dark. Then he turned on his heels, headed straight out. Grissom dropped down onto the stool and let out a long breath. _Staying out of trouble in here is a damn sight easier than out there,_ replayed in his head. It might be true for Manuel, but it wasn't for him. It was true he'd been walking a thin line recently, but from now on he'd have to be extra careful.

"You okay?" Manuel asked, looking concerned as he came back in.

"Sure," Grissom replied, looking up. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Manuel sat down. "Was it about what happened in the yard this afternoon?"

"Yeah."

Manuel stared at Grissom, more questions in his eyes, but Grissom simply turned the chessboard round before moving his rook back to where it previously was. "So, we're finishing the game or what?"

Long after lights out, Grissom thought back to his chat to Manuel at dinnertime and his subsequent encounter with Armstrong. He waited until Manuel was snoring to get up, grab a piece of paper and his pen and start writing to Sara. He felt more at peace with himself than he had done all week. The words came easily. The next day, he emailed her his next chess move, then went about his day as normal. After his class, he didn't go back to his cell. Instead, he stopped by one of the weekly counselling session Dr Walker ran.

Grissom hovered outside the room for a moment, before nodding at the guard standing at the open door and quietly slipping in at the back. He was amazed at how busy it was, with little available seating or standing room. It was mass rather than group counselling, but he liked it better that way. A few heads turned toward him as he stood there, exposed and awkward. Walker's voice suddenly rose from somewhere not visible to him near the front and the few heads turned back, refocusing as laughter erupted all around.

The atmosphere was relaxed, almost upbeat, comfortable. A man he didn't know shuffled along the metal bench, moving closer to his neighbour to make space for him, and with a slight nod of thanks Grissom perched himself on the edge of the bench. He didn't feel so exposed anymore, just another nameless face in a big crowd. There was no pressure to talk or participate. The crowd would simply listen and nod, keeping quiet while others talked. Everyone seemed to be sharing the same story despite the many variations.

After ten minutes or so Grissom was about to leave, when feeling eyes on him he looked up suddenly, only to find himself staring straight at Dr Walker. Their gazes locked briefly, enough time for a silent acknowledgement to pass between them, before the counsellor refocused his eyes back to whoever was speaking, just out of Grissom's sight. Grissom watched Dr Walker for a moment longer, but the insightful counsellor never made eye contact again.

The message had been clear, Grissom acknowledging that he'd finally opened up to the idea that maybe he was ready to get help coping with what he had done while Dr Walker communicated that there was no pressure, that he was there, happy to offer his support, if needed. Grissom stood up soon after and left as quietly as he'd arrived. He was nowhere near ready to lead such a session as the counsellor had suggested during their meeting, but he knew he'd come again.

He'd taken the long-overdue first step toward recovery, and it felt good.


	16. Chapter 16

"Sara Sidle, visitor for you at the front desk. Sara Sidle, front desk please."

Frowning, Sara paused, then carefully lowered her hands from the wrecked BMW's brake line. Music was playing in the background and she wasn't sure she'd heard the message that had played over the PA system right.

"Sara?" Nick called. "You heard that?"

She rolled out from under the car and looked up at Nick watching her. "I'm not expecting anyone."

Nick shrugged. "Maybe it's a package."

Looking dubious, she pushed to her feet, and after pulling off her oily latex gloves turned off the inspection lamp on her headgear and slipped it off her head. Her gaze flicked to the wall clock – it was almost 10am, two hours past the end of their shift. Looking down at herself she let out a long, tired breath. Wearing an old pair of oversized coveralls and her hair tied back in a messy ponytail, she was far from looking her best.

"You look mighty fine to me," Nick said, a mischievous half-smile tugging at his lips.

Laughing, Sara play punched him in the side, then untied her hair and ruffled it into a semblance of style. "You never know," she said, grinning broadly. "It could be Prince Charming with a cup of strong coffee and a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts."

"You wish," he laughed, turning back to the car.

She gave her shoulders a stretch as she headed out of the garage. "I won't be long."

"I'll still be here," he called after her wearily.

Sara thought about stopping by the locker room to slip off her coveralls but that meant removing her boots and then putting them back on again and she didn't have the energy.

"Laura, you called me?" she asked, leaning against the front desk.

"You have a visitor," the clerk replied, "She didn't give her name. She just showed me a hand-written note asking to speak with you in person."

Sara frowned before the penny dropped and she whipped her head around, only now noticing Betty sitting in one of the visitors' plastic chairs a little further down the corridor. She wore blue pants and a matching jacket, held her purse tightly clutched to her lap as well as what Sara recognised as her 'I'm a Deaf Person' card.

"Thanks, Laura," she said absently, and made her way to her mother-in-law.

Clearly lost in thought, Betty didn't see Sara approach and startled when the latter touched her on the arm. Sara sat down on the next chair and raised her hands. "Is everything okay?" she signed, her face registering a look of concern.

Betty took hold of Sara's hands, a gesture Sara knew was meant to be appeasing, and nodded her head. "Everything's fine," she signed, and then with a sigh and a glance at Sara's appearance, "I'm sorry to be disturbing you at work."

Sara made an O followed by a fast K with her fingers. "It's okay."

"I sent a text to your phone."

Sara made a fist she rotated over her heart. "I'm sorry. I've…" the signs failing her, she motioned to the lab, silently explaining that she got busy and hadn't checked her phone in a while.

"I went to your house, but you weren't there, so I came here instead."

Smiling, Sara nodded her head that she understood. Whatever Betty had to tell her was urgent, or the older woman wouldn't have gone to all this trouble. She looked troubled and tired, as if she hadn't slept in days and Sara feared that it was the case. A lab technician from Days walked past, nodding her head at Sara, and Sara returned the greeting with a stiff smile.

"That's okay," she signed once again refocusing her gaze on Betty. "I don't mind." She paused, then shrugged and opened her hands in a question she hoped Betty would interpret as "What can I do for you?"

"I wrote to Gil, Sara," Betty signed, her expression earnest and beseeching. "I finally did it. I wrote Gil a letter. It took me all night." Pausing, she held Sara's eyes. "I'd like you to read it before I send it."

It took a moment for Sara to process all Betty had signed. "Oh."

Betty rotated a flat hand to her chest a few times. "Please?"

Smiling, Sara gave a vehement nod of the head and then pointed at the place on her wrist where a watch would be, but Betty was already one step ahead.

"I don't mind waiting," she offered before Sara found the signs.

Sara's smile faded, and she nodded her head, hesitating. She wanted to read the letter there and then but the lab's lobby just wasn't private enough. She'd probably get emotional too at what she knew would be a heartfelt letter. It would have been hard for Betty to put her feelings into words while also being mindful of Grissom's emotional wellbeing, which was probably why she wanted Sara's go-ahead before she sent it. She thought about giving Betty her house keys and asking her to wait there while she finished her work but there was the issue of the house alarm to disable.

A delivery person came into the lobby, pushing a heavy cart past them before stopping at the front desk. Sara lifted her index finger in the air, asking Betty to stay put, then stood and walked over to the front desk. There she signed Betty into the visitors' book, wrote her name on a visitor's badge and returned to her mother-in-law's side. She gave Betty the visitor's badge to clip to her jacket's lapel, then took her arm and signed that she'd be as quick as she could but that she would find somewhere quieter for her to wait than the lobby.

Remembering that DB was at a meeting at City Hall, she guided Betty down the corridors to his office. The door was shut. Sara knocked and when she heard no reply turned the handle and went in. The room was in darkness and she flicked her hand to the light switch. Betty paused at the threshold and slowly scanned her eyes over the office, probably remembering the last time she'd been there, when Grissom was in Peru and together they had skyped him.

"It's changed a lot since the last time I was here," Betty signed, refocusing on Sara.

Sara looked round the office and nodded her head. "We've got a new boss," she signed, and shrugged. "He's out."

Nodding, Betty took a hesitant step inside the room, and Sara motioned her to one of the visitors' chairs. She made her hand into a glass and pretending to drink, and Betty quickly shook her head, indicating that she was fine. Sara hesitated again, then finally signed that she'd be as quick as she could and left, quietly closing the door behind her. On edge suddenly, she quickly made her way back to the garage, finding Nick checking the backseat of the BMW for trace.

"What, not Prince Charming?" he asked, smiling as noticing she was back he came out of the car and slipped the safety goggles he'd been wearing to the top of his head.

Sara gave her head a shake. "No. Huh, Betty's here. Grissom's mother? You remember her, right?"

"Sure I remember Mrs G." A look of concern crossed Nick's features. "How is she doing?"

Sara checked over her shoulder to make sure they weren't being overheard. "Not very well. She's just found out about Gil and—"

His eyes widened in shock. "He didn't tell her either?"

Sara shook her head. "Anyways, she's waiting and—"

"Go," Nick cut in earnestly. "Go. I don't mind finishing up. We were almost done anyway."

"You sure?"

"I told you. You just ask."

Sara reached out her hand to Nick's shoulder. "Thanks, Nick. I owe you one."

"No, you don't." He flashed her a quick smile, then lowered the safety goggles onto his face and turned the light back on the ALS.

"The undercarriage looked clean. I could see no visible signs of tampering."

"Okay," he said, pausing. "Don't worry. I got this covered. Go on, now, go." He turned back to the car. "And pass on my best wishes."

"I'll see you tonight."

"No, you won't." And as he got in the backseat of the car, "I got the night off."

After stopping by the locker room to clean up and get changed, Sara headed to the break room and made two coffees she took to DB's office. As she stood in front of the closed door, wondering how she was going to open it, Hodges happened past. Smiling, he pointed at Sara and then at the door before bowing his head and opening the door for her.

"Thanks, David," she said, using her hip to shut the door after her.

"My pleasure," he called through the door.

For a moment, she panicked on not finding Betty where she had left her but soon she noticed her standing near the shelves, deeply engrossed in examining one of DB's artefact. Sara knew Betty wouldn't have heard the door open and shut but she turned toward her all the same, a smile instinctively forming. Sara returned the smile warmly, thinking how sad it was that it had taken Grissom being in prison to bring the two of them together.

Betty covered the distance to Sara and took one of the cups from her. "Thank you."

"It's coffee. That's all there was."

Bringing the cup to her mouth, Betty took a careful sip and Sara hesitantly followed suit. Sara thought about suggesting they went some place else, but there was something comforting about being in this office surrounded by all the memories of Grissom. Sitting, she set her cup down on the desk, and Betty came to join her.

"How are you?" Sara signed.

Offering Sara a trembling smile, Betty put her cup down and waved her hand in a so-so motion. She placed both hands in front of her face, palms in, then brought them down and tilting her head forward slightly made a sad face. Then she convulsed as if a wave of fear had shot through her body.

"Me too," Sara signed. "I'm sad and scared too." Her face brightened suddenly. "I heard from him yesterday. He emailed his next chess move."

Betty frowned, and thinking that she must have made a mistake Sara repeated what she thought was the correct signs for chess. This time Betty's face lit up with surprise, and she laughed. "You play chess on the computer?"

Breaking into a wide smile, Sara nodded her head. She hadn't told Betty about the letter she'd sent to Grissom's cellmate and the subsequent silent treatment, but she was glad he'd got over it. She was yet to receive a handwritten letter from him, but she was sure it was on the way. "He's winning," she went on cheerfully.

Betty's expression turned wistful. "He always does."

Sara nodded her head again, and tears filling her eyes Betty pinched her lips. Her smile fading, Sara reached out her hand to her mother-in-law's arm and stroked it warmly. Betty gave Sara a grateful smile, but the tears came regardless. Turning away, Betty reached down to the floor for her purse and looked inside before taking out a tissue and then more tentatively what Sara assumed was the letter she'd written Grissom. She hesitated briefly before looking up and handing it over to Sara with trembling hands.

Sara caught Betty's eye, silently asking, "Are you sure you want me to read it?"

Betty's nod, as she used the tissue to dab at her tears, was definite.

Sara gave a sigh. Turning the unmarked envelope over, she removed the single sheet of paper and with an uneasy smile toward Betty unfolded it. Betty reached for her cup of coffee, and taking a deep, steadying breath Sara began to read the letter.

 _Dearest Gil,_

 _I hope this letter finds you well. I'm sorry for not replying to your last email, but I just couldn't bring myself to perpetuate the lie. I'm sure you've realised by now that if I'm writing this letter it is because I know the truth. And no. Before you get on your high horse, Sara didn't tell me._

 _I'd like to be able to tell you that I found out by chance, but that wouldn't be the truth. The truth is that for some months now I've been suspecting something wasn't right. The lack of visits in over a year and a half, the lack of Skype calls, were an oddity even for you. But it's the tone of your emails that gave the game away; they became shorter, scarcer, devoid of the energy and enthusiasm that are so intrinsic to your nature. Something had changed, and even though at first I put it down to the breakup of your marriage I knew deep down that that wasn't it._

 _Anyway, about two months ago, I put your name into google and on the second or third page I came across a link to an article in the Port Arthur News. What I read broke my heart, not because I was hurt or ashamed, but because I knew how much you'd be hurting. I cannot begin to imagine the pain, stress, and turmoil of soul you must be feeling. I understand why you didn't tell us – couldn't tell us – and I don't resent you for it. I understand the feelings of guilt and shame that must have filled you, consumed you. I'm sure they still do._

 _I am not angry or disappointed. We all cope with life's hardships in different ways. But you are my son, and I love you. I am proud of you and of your achievements, like only a mother can be. What happened doesn't change that. Tolerance, acceptance and forgiveness are three aspects of the human condition I tried to teach you when you were a little boy; hope too. You need them now more than ever, and not for others but for yourself._ _Forgiveness is one of God's greatest gift to us; I hope you remember that._

 _I would like to come visit you, but Sara explained that you didn't want that, and that unless you agreed to the visits first they couldn't take place. I respect that. But I hope that in time you'll change your mind and allow us to come. I hope too that you'll write back._

 _Stay strong._

 _Love always,_

 _Mom._

When Sara looked up from the letter, she had tears in her eyes. Betty's gaze was probing, expectant, and Sara smiled. "It's perfect," she said, mouthing the words almost inaudibly, and handed the letter back to Betty. "Just perfect."

Betty's face lit up. "You think so?" she asked with her eyes, taking the proffered letter.

Her trembling smile widening, Sara nodded her head. She truly meant it. The letter was indeed perfect; it was selfless and magnanimous, full of the love, compassion and understanding Grissom unknowingly craved while also and maybe more importantly devoid of the reproach, complaint and judgement he feared.

Betty's gaze lowered to the letter in her hands. "Do you think I should send it?" she signed after she placed the letter on her lap, looking back up.

Again, Sara nodded her head. "It's going to be hard for him, but—" Pausing, she reached over for the pen and message pad near DB's phone on the desk. "Knowing he has your support will make a big difference to him. I know it."

"Thank you," Betty signed, giving Sara a warm smile. She looked as though a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders, and Sara guessed it had.

Betty was putting the letter away in her purse when the office door opened suddenly. Sara turned toward it with a start.

"Sorry, Sara," DB said, pausing at the door, his eyes flicking from her to Betty with surprise, "I didn't know anyone was here."

Sara stood up, and Betty followed suit. "It's okay."

"No, no." DB motioned for them to remain seated. "It's fine. Use the office. I was only passing. I got to go to the morgue anyway."

Sara nodded her head. DB's eyes flicked over to Betty again, and Sara felt introductions were in order. "DB," she said, and signed, "This is Betty, my mother-in-law." And then turning to Betty, slowly finger-spelling, "This is DB Russell, my boss."

DB didn't quite manage to hide his shock, and Sara stifled a smile, unsure if it was because she knew sign language or because Grissom's mother was in his office. Regardless, DB quickly plastered a pleasant smile on his face and came into the office. "Nice to meet you," he signed confidently, a greeting Betty reciprocated pleasurably.

"You know sign language?" Sara exclaimed with disbelief.

"No, not really," DB replied easily. "Just a few necessary basics." He flicked his gaze over to Betty and smiled. "Anyway, I'll leave you two to it." He moved to the door and waved goodbye to Betty, and then holding Sara's gaze meaningfully, "I'll see you tonight, Sara."

DB closed the door quietly, and Sara turned back to Betty.

"I should go," Betty signed, gathering her purse. "I've taken up enough of your time."

Sara waved both hands in the negative. Then she paused, an idea forming in her head. She picked up the pen and pad, and wrote. "Are you busy this morning?"

Frowning, Betty shook her head.

"Good," Sara signed. "Then come to the house with me. There's something I'd like your help with."

Betty looked at Sara with puzzled eyes and Sara smiled.

"I think you'll enjoy it," she signed, and a wide smile forming Betty finally acquiesced.

They were signing Betty out of the lab when Hodges walked past, headed out too. He smiled at Sara, then at Betty, and frowned, lowering his eyes before raising them again, and Sara knew he'd recognised Betty. His smile returning, he flicked his gaze back to Sara. "Have a nice day."

"You too, David." Sara held her smile until Hodges was out of sight. Hodges knew that she and Grissom had gone through a rough patch and separated, everyone at the lab knew, but that was all he knew. Who was to say that she and Grissom hadn't got back together since? And even if they hadn't, Betty was her mother-in-law, why wouldn't they keep in touch? With a sigh, she turned back to Betty who was watching her.

"Is everything okay?" Betty signed.

"Sure," Sara smiled. "Let's go.

The traffic was light at that time of day, and the journey home didn't take long. Sara made sure to drive slowly so Betty who was following in her own car could keep up. At the house, Sara pulled up on the left side of the driveway and then while Betty parked alongside her went to check the mailbox. There were a few letters, but sadly nothing from Grissom. Sara let herself in and quickly disabled the alarm before inviting Betty to come in. She put her keys, the mail and her purse on the hall table, and then took off her jacket she tossed over the armchair.

Betty scanned her eyes around and a smile forming took a few steps toward the hall table. There, she picked up the photograph of Grissom and Sara, studied it and then put it back. Looking up, she smiled at Sara and Sara returned the smile a little uneasily. She couldn't remember the last time Betty had visited, and she wondered if she would find the house much changed.

"Sorry about…" she let her hands fall, then pointed toward the coffee table and the mountain of newspapers and magazines on it. "It's for Gil," she provided when Betty took a hesitant step forward. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

Betty nodded her head absently, and Sara disappeared to the kitchen. She put two slices of bread in the toaster and the kettle on. She filled a glass with orange juice and sipped at it while putting together a tray with mugs and a plate for her toast. When, laden, she returned to the lounge, Betty wasn't there. Sara made a space on the table for the tray, then while munching on her toast booted up her laptop and opened her internet browser. Distantly, she heard the toilet flush. Hearing the bathroom door open and close, Sara looked up expectantly.

"You have a nice house," Betty signed, coming back into the lounge.

Smiling, Sara signed her thanks. She motioned for Betty to come and sit down next to her on the couch before opening the _Texas Department of Criminal Justice, Commissary and Trust Fund_ page she'd previously bookmarked. Frowning, Betty shifted closer and leaned forward so she could have a better view. Sara turned to Betty and watched excitedly, hoping that what she was trying to do wouldn't require much explaining. She'd been so excited when she'd found out about the quarterly care package family members could put together for their incarcerated loved ones.

There was so much choice, items that included snacks, hygiene products, correspondence supplies as well as clothes and some new packaged items. At first, she'd been tempted to buy everything she could for him, items she knew he'd like and had been denied for eighteen long months, but she'd soon reached the $60 limit and hardly had anything of value to show for it. And then there was the issue of storage and the fact that she'd worried that Grissom might get overwhelmed at receiving too much at once. She hadn't gone through with the order.

Betty turned toward Sara, a wide, excited smile on her face. She waved her hand between the two of them before pointing at the laptop and signing, "You want us to shop for him?"

Sara opened her hands out in a "What do you think?" motion.

Her smile widening, Betty nodded her head eagerly.

"But not too much," Sara warned. "I don't think he would like that."

Betty agreed. "Has he got his own money to spend?" quick hands asked.

Sara made the sign for yes. "He gets money for the work he does at the prison. I looked it up. They don't earn very much." She paused and shrugged. "So I top up his account every month. I don't think he knows."

She typed Grissom's inmate number and surname in the website, and they began shopping. The biggest expense was a small desktop fan. Sara explained that, in his letters, Grissom complained of the heat, and she hoped he'd appreciate the gesture. According to the BOP website, each cell should have an electrical outlet and if his and Manuel's didn't then he could trade it off. She'd looked it up; the temperatures in Texas were in the high nineties right then, and the humidity almost 100%.

They only spent half the available $60. They could always make another purchase as and when. Betty offered to pay, but Sara wouldn't have any of it. She put in her bank card details and pressed confirm. Betty's smile wavered and when the payment had been accepted and the order sent, she patted her hand to Sara's arm, her feelings of gratitude toward her daughter-in-law and what she was doing obvious.

Sara covered Betty's hand with hers and gave it a squeeze.

This was the beginning of a long road ahead for them, but she knew that together they were headed in the right direction and that by taking one small step at a time they'd eventually get him home.


	17. Chapter 17

Depression.

The word echoed around Grissom's mind like a haunting whisper until, exhausted, he finally drifted into a fitful sleep in the early hours of the morning. The counselling session he'd dropped in to on Monday evening had got him thinking. The next day he'd checked out the book about depression and mood disorders he'd previously looked at from the library and had read it at length when he was certain Manuel was asleep. Frustratingly, it had raised more questions than answers. Depression was the most common mood disorder, he'd found out, prevalent in all walks of life and among all age groups, and spanning a wide range of symptoms, some he clearly displayed but others he did not.

But _depression_?

Sure, there were days when he felt low and discouraged, _depressed_ even, questioning his purpose in life, but who didn't have such days especially in prison? While it was also true that some nights he had difficulty falling asleep and then staying asleep, he wasn't the only one. Most inmates struggled with sleeplessness too. Even after lights out, the cells were never dark and it was often noisy with talking and laughing, even shouting sometimes, until late in the night.

His character had changed, he couldn't deny that. His moods too. He was fine one minute, going about his business, then angry the next and ready to punch a hole through a wall. He had become impatient, short-tempered and constantly restless. He'd managed to keep a lid on his emotions for a long time, but lately it was becoming harder. His growing reckless behaviour worried him too. So far, he'd always kept below the radar and away from trouble, but that was proving harder to achieve, especially with Armstrong breathing down his neck.

When the wakeup buzzer sounded through the housing unit and the fluorescent light crackled then flickered on in the cell, Grissom woke up with a start and a sore neck. Sweat matted his short hair and his shirt clung to his chest. With a sigh, he removed his glasses from his nose, rubbed at his eyes and swung his legs over the edge of the bunk. The book he'd been reading when he fell asleep dropped to the ground and quickly he picked it up and stowed it under his pillow lest Manuel saw it.

Manuel gave a loud moan as he shifted on the cot above, then lowered his legs and jumped down. Briefly glancing at Grissom, he scratched at the stubble on his face, then staggered to the toilet and relieved himself. Grissom didn't like waking with the buzzer. He liked to be up first and use the facilities without an audience. Wearily, he reached down for the bedsheet that had fallen to the ground and picked it up. Then he stood and made his bed, and while Manuel was at the sink washing his hands and face and drinking thirstily from the faucet he grabbed his book from its hiding place and quickly returned it to his locker.

Their morning routine never varied – thirty minutes to get ready, make their beds, clean up and tidy the cell before the first count of the day when the door was unlocked and they were let out, headed straight to breakfast. Then, they had a little free time, long enough for a phone call home, or a trip to the commissary or even a shower depending on the rota before they were due to start their assigned jobs. Grissom went to the computer room to check his email. Sara had made her next move, playing right into his hand and leaving her queen exposed. A smug smile tugging at his lips, he moved his rook, putting her queen in checkmate.

Outside, the day was hot and humid, but overcast. Much needed rain threatened but Grissom knew that it would pass them over. Briefly pausing from his work, he looked skyward and tracked the movement of nimbostratus clouds all around. Wishing they would burst, he closed his eyes and imagined the feel of the rain on his face. God, how good would that be? He thought of Sara then. She should be catching up on sleep at that time of day, but he doubted she was. Afterwards, he ate lunch alone. He was checking the call-out sheet on the unit's notice board when a voice directly behind him spoke.

"You weren't looking for me, were you?"

Startling, Grissom turned toward Dr Walker. "No. I—" He pointed at the notice board. "I was just checking the times for commissary."

The correctional counsellor gave a nod. "I was…pleased to see you at the session the other evening."

Grissom's eyes lowered hesitantly. "I was walking past and I thought…I'd give it a try. See what all the fuss was about."

"And?" Dr Walker asked, genuinely interested. "What did you think?"

Grissom's shoulder lifted. "It wasn't what I expected."

Dr Walker laughed. "It's a bit chaotic at times, but hopefully it helps."

Grissom nodded. "It was…a lot busier than I expected."

"Not everyone that comes takes part. I suspect some come because there's nothing better to watch on television." A couple of officers walked past and the doctor glanced at them. "The sessions remind me of those television shows, you know? Jerry Springer and the likes. Without all the fighting. You haven't changed your mind, have you?"

Grissom gave a shake of the head at the sudden change of tack. "Changed my mind?"

"About leading such a session."

Grissom laughed uneasily. "No."

Dr Walker nodded, and then after a beat in silence, "My meeting got cancelled, so I got a little time on my hands. Would you like to…come to my office and talk some more maybe? Somewhere less...public?"

"No, thanks." Grissom flashed a quick smile. "I can't. I need to go to the store and then I got my shift at the library."

"Okay," Walker replied easily. "Well, you know where I am." He made to leave. "Nice talking to you. Hopefully I'll see you around."

Dr Walker disappeared down the wide corridor that led to his office while Grissom remained where he was. He scanned his eyes around the hall uncertainly, then sighed and with a quick look over his shoulder went after Dr Walker. The door to the doctor's office was open wide and Grissom stopped at the threshold hesitantly. With his back to him, Dr Walker was pouring hot water into a travel mug.

"A problem shared is a problem halved," the doctor said without looking at Grissom. Turning around, he smiled warmly before bringing the cup to his lips and looking at Grissom expectantly.

Grissom's returning smile was tense and awkward. If only it was that simple, he thought. His gaze averted to the floor before moving back up hesitantly. He felt conflicted; part of him wanted to share his fears and worries and get the counsellor's professional opinion on them but the other part did not want to appear weak or like he wasn't coping. A door opened to his right, and he turned toward it.

"Come on in," Dr Walker said pleasantly just as Grissom was about to retreat, and took a seat behind his desk. "I would offer you a coffee but it's against the rules."

Grissom flashed another stiff smile, then after one last moment's hesitation came into the office and quietly closed the door. Pausing, he turned to face the doctor.

"So, what's on your mind?"

Grissom shrugged. "It's probably nothing."

"Shoot."

Grissom sighed. He normally wouldn't open up like that, but there was something about the counsellor's easy, straightforward manner that put him at ease and allowed him to voice thoughts and feelings he'd much rather keep secret. "I―I've been reading about…depression and―"

Dr Walker's brow rose. "Depression, huh?" he remarked when Grissom faltered, a smile forming on his lips. "Depressing reading in itself."

Grissom ignored the doctor's attempt at lightening the mood. "And I was wondering if…" shrugging, he made himself meet the doctor's eyes.

"You maybe suffered from it?"

"I don't know. I mean, could I?"

Dr Walker set his drink down and leaning back on his chair pursed his face, considering. "You asking yourself the question is a good thing. Talking about it even better." He opened his hand, indicating Grissom should sit down and Grissom numbly did so. "There are a lot of misconceptions about depression. For example, you don't have to be in the depths of despair and misery, curled up in bed and battling thoughts of ending your life to be depressed."

"I know that," Grissom defended. "And that's not how I feel."

" _How_ do you feel?"

Grissom smiled. "Depressed?"

Dr Walker laughed. "Touché. But all joking aside, feeling depressed isn't the same as _being_ depressed."

"That's what I can't figure out," Grissom said. "From what I read it would appear that I exhibit a lot of the typical symptoms of depression." He gave a sad, uneasy smile. "But more worryingly, my mood's all over the place and I don't seem to be able to control it. I've become short-tempered, reckless even."

His brow furrowing, Dr Walker shifted in his seat. "In what ways?"

Grissom lifted his shoulder, embarrassed, ashamed even to admit to a third party what had happened with Manuel. "I…lost it with Manuel the other day."

"Your cellie?"

Grissom nodded. "I just…got so angry with him."

Walker picked up his mug. "Did you have a good reason?"

"Does it matter?"

"Sure," Dr Walker replied, after swallowing the mouthful he'd just drunk. "We all get angry sometimes. It's how we manage that anger that matters."

"I agree, and generally I have no issues managing my anger and feelings of frustrations. But it's…" he shrugged, "becoming harder."

Dr Walker gave a nod. "Did the…altercation with Manuel become physical?"

His eyes averting, Grissom nodded his head. "I stopped in time, I mean, before I did him any harm but I could have and…it scared me."

Dr Walker considered Grissom's words. "Was it an isolated occurrence?"

"With Manuel, yes. Definitely." He paused, his gaze once again lowering uncomfortably. "There was an incident in the yard at the weekend."

Dr Walker downed the rest of his drink and set the cup on the corner of his desk. "An incident?"

"I almost started a fight," Grissom grudgingly conceded.

Once again pondering Grissom's admission carefully, Dr Walker slowly nodded his head. "And why have you come to a diagnosis of depression rather than that of anger management issues brought about by the physical and emotional stress you're under?"

Grissom frowned. "Anger?"

"Why not? I'd be angry at the world too if I were you."

"I'm not angry at the world. Just at myself."

Dr Walker smiled softly. "Now we're getting somewhere."

Grissom couldn't help the smile that formed at how easily he'd been played. "Couldn't the anger issues be brought about by depression?"

"It tends to work the other way around. Lashing out in anger can lead to feelings of guilt, or _more_ feelings of guilt in your case, which in turn can lead to depression. I'd sure be angry if my life had been taken away from me and I found myself locked up in a place like this 24/7."

"It's not that. I deserve to be here. I've made my peace with that."

"Okay," the doctor cut in amiably, not wanting to get off his point. "But that doesn't mean that you _belong_ here. You're mixing with people you wouldn't be mixing with normally. You're having to deal with a lot, and you're finding that tough. You're trying to manage prison life and all its pitfalls while trying to move on from the dark place you found yourself in after the accident."

Grissom opened his mouth to object and Walker raised his hand, wordlessly acknowledging Grissom's point. "I know. It was no accident, but you know what I mean." He paused, held Grissom's gaze levelly. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but until the crash, you led what I'd call a successful life, right? I see a high-flyer in front of me, a straight-A student, always at the top, always in control. Same professionally. Dare I say this level of success was harder to achieve on a personal level, but you achieved it too?"

Grissom frowned, then swallowed and conceded the point with a nod.

"You got to understand," the doctor went on, "that those very traits that led you to be successful – perfectionism and being goal-orientated for example – _could_ actually positively contribute to depression."

Grissom's frown intensified. "How so?"

"Successful people generally have high expectations, especially of themselves, and failure isn't an option. They'll work at something until they get to where they think they need to be. And sometimes they even refuse to get themselves into situations they think they will fail at."

Grissom's ears pricked as he thought of his relationship with Sara.

"They're not used to failing," Walker went on, "and when they do they don't have the right coping mechanisms because they've never had to learn them. _You_ , Grissom, are learning them now."

"I used to ride coasters," Grissom interjected suddenly.

Pausing, Dr Walker fixed him with a puzzled look.

"I used to ride rollercoasters," he repeated quietly, giving the counsellor a sad smile, "when everything was getting on top of me and I needed to clear my head."

Walker smiled broadly. "I don't think the department can accommodate that." His expression sobered. "Did you ever…suffer from depressive episodes? I mean, before your incarceration."

Grissom shrugged. "No. Not really. The job sometimes got too much, but I could handle that." He paused and sighed. "A few years ago, I—I lost someone close and that hit me hard."

"That's to be expected."

"It took me a while to…recover fully."

"The coasters didn't work?"

Grissom shook his head. "No."

"And you've never felt the need to turn to drinking, or use medication."

"No. Never."

Walker nodded as he pondered Grissom's words. "How long was a while? You said before, it took you a _while_ to recover. How long was a while?"

"A few months maybe? Losing Warrick changed my outlook on life."

"For the better?"

Thinking of Sara and their reunion in the jungle, Grissom smiled. "Yeah, for the better. I quit my job, and…" thinking better than opening up about his problems with Sara at the time, Grissom faltered. "I mean, it was time. It was only after I left my old life behind that I got better. The job had gotten tedious and Warrick's death was just…the catalyst I needed."

"Okay," Walker said agreeably, accepting Grissom's explanation. "So you coped then. You made changes, and it worked. What about now? What is it you need to change to make things better for you now?" Dr Walker laughed. "Within the constraints of these four walls, of course. Or do you believe that everything will resolve itself when you've done your time? There is no miracle cure for depression."

"So we're back to depression?"

Dr Walker opened his hands, showing his ambivalence. "Whatever label you want to give to the way you're feeling, you're going to have to develop some new coping mechanisms. Especially if you want to stay out of trouble in here, which I know you do. Your choices are limited here, but you will need to find a way of relieving your tension. Exercise helps some people."

Thinking back to how boxing had helped at the weekend, Grissom nodded his head.

"Others turn to religion. There are several Bible studies groups you could join."

Grissom's eyes averted and he stayed quiet.

"There's also an Art programme," Walker went on, unfazed. Grissom looked up sharply, and Walker shrugged. "Or you can come to more of my group therapies." Pausing, he waited until he had Grissom's full attention to say, "For what it's worth, I don't think you're depressed. Not in the clinical sense of the word. I think the monotony of your days is wearing you down. Your life as you knew it is on hiatus. There is no goal, or purpose anymore. Also, I think that you're entering a new phase and you're unsettled. Sara's made contact with you and now, consciously or not, you're thinking about life on the outside. And looking at it from your point of view, that's scary."

Grissom let out a long sigh and nodded his head.

Dr Walker flicked his eyes to the wall. "It's almost two pm," he said, "I should let you go."

Grissom immediately pushed to his feet. "I'm sorry if I took up too much of your time."

Dr Walker laughed. "No, not at all. I was thinking of you. I wouldn't want to be the cause of a reprimand."

"Oh. My work at the library is voluntary."

Walker nodded. "You know, Grissom, _guilt_ can be a depressing feeling in itself. Holding on to it will prevent you from moving forward with your life – in here or on the outside. You need to find a way to stop the negative feelings. But first you need to come to terms with what you did."

"How?"

"Turn the negative thoughts into positive ones. Think about all the good you do in here for example. Even if you help just one person, your...stay here wouldn't have been in vain."

Grissom met the counsellor's gaze and nodded his head. The pair lapsed into silence, and Grissom extended his hand suddenly, awkwardly, and after registering a look of surprise, Walker stood up and shook it. "Thank you," Grissom said.

"Come to more sessions," Dr Walker said. "Hearing other people's stories, finding out how they cope, knowing you're not alone; it will help."

Grissom headed straight to the library. There was a line of inmates already waiting at the desk where Officer Conrad stood. "Everything all right?" the officer asked, acknowledging Grissom's tardy arrival with a nod.

"Sure," Grissom said, and took his place alongside him.

Checking books in and out and then putting them back on the shelves was repetitive, but there was a steady stream of people and that kept his mind busy. An hour into his shift, Manuel turned up with his GED books and sat down at a table by himself. Grissom registered a look of surprise; Manuel didn't usually come to study at the library. In fact, Grissom could count on the fingers of one hand the times Manuel had voluntarily set foot in the place.

As he returned books back to their rightful place on the shelves, Grissom kept stealing puzzled glances at Manuel but the latter was too engrossed in what he was doing to notice. He was putting Harper Lee's _To Kill a Mockingbird_ back on the shelf when he looked at the cover, paused and pursing his mouth looked at Manuel.

"You need help with anything?" Grissom asked, sitting down next to him.

Manuel turned toward him. "No, I'm good," he replied, immediately turning his attention back to his calculations.

Grissom pushed his glasses higher up his nose and leaned across to see what Manuel was working on. 'A house with a market value of $120,000 was assessed for 60% of its market value,' he read. 'The house is taxed at 2% of the assessed value. What is the yearly tax on the house?' Grissom's eyes took on a distant look as he did the maths for himself.

"$1440," Manuel said, circling the answer on his pad.

"Sure is," Grissom laughed, pleased that Manuel got it right. Pausing, he removed his glasses. "So, what are you doing here?"

"Finishing my homework," Manuel replied, before his face darkened and he shrugged his shoulder. "You're right," he then said, causing Grissom to frown, "I'm going to pass this fucking test."

Grissom smiled. "That's the spirit." He looked at Harper Lee's _To Kill a Mockingbird_ he'd placed on the table and pushed the book toward Manuel. "You read this one?"

"Sure," Manuel said, glancing at the cover, "I saw it."

Grissom laughed. "Read it. Knowing the story will help."

Manuel took the proffered book and studied the cover more closely. "Okay," he said at last, looking up. "I'll give it a try."

Nodding, Grissom pushed to his feet. "I'll see you in the chow hall?"

"You sure will."

After scarfing down their dinners, Grissom and Manuel went straight to the dayroom for mail call. It wasn't long before two officers came in pushing a cart, names were called and mail distributed. Grissom received two letters at once, which hadn't happened in a long time. Assuming they were both from Sara, he didn't look at them. Folding them over, he simply slipped them in his pocket and waited for Manuel's name to be called – or not, as the case was. He didn't know how he had coped without getting regular news from Sara for all those long months, but now he could hardly bear the weekends without it. His daily trip to the day room for mail call had become the highlight of his day, and he couldn't remember a time when it wasn't.

Back at the cell, he made himself comfortable on his cot, put his glasses on and pulled the first letter out of the envelope. The letter was short, shorter than usual and there wasn't the usual assortment of newspaper and magazine cuttings, which meant Sara was busy with work. Apart from occasional news from the team, she never really mentioned work or any of the cases she worked on in her correspondence, and he never asked. It was for the best, he figured. Less to worry about, and that way if his letters were ever to fall in the wrong hands his former line of work wouldn't be revealed.

A chill ran through him unexpectedly. As he did every time he thought of Sara, he prayed for her wellbeing and safety. She wouldn't be at work yet, but she'd be getting ready. He wondered what she was doing right then. He closed his eyes and imagined her in the kitchen, barefoot, her hair tied back, wearing shorts and a tank top, cooking herself a little dinner. Eggs maybe, with a side salad. In his mind, she took her food to the lounge. Music was playing there, and she sat down on the couch to eat it.

As she ate, she checked her phone, her face lighting up suddenly at what she read on the screen. Reaching forward, she put her phone down and moved his black rook on the chessboard she'd set up on one side of the coffee table, putting her queen in checkmate. Her smile growing, she shook her head in disbelief, then stared at the board and bit at her thumbnail in concentration. She was trying to figure out how she could save her queen from capture. She couldn't.

The soft, lingering smile died on his lips as soon as he glanced at the second envelope. His mother's handwriting was as neat and steady as ever. Unconsciously, he sat up straighter in bed. His hands began to shake as the breath caught in his throat. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath he blew out slowly. It did little to calm his suddenly racing heart. Oh, God, he thought, feeling tears rise, how had she found out? And then the answer was so plainly obvious that it broke his heart.

His feelings of shame and guilt at what he had done, at being a coward and not facing up to his responsibilities back home, returned with a vengeance. Squeezing his eyes shut, he slipped his glasses off and covered his face with his hand. Dr Walker's words came back to him then, and he realised that he needed to take charge of these emotions before they tightened the hold they already had over him. Wiping at his eyes, he looked around the cell but Manuel was either on his bunk above him, or he'd gone out without his noticing.

He waited until well after lights out when he was certain that Manuel was fast asleep to sit up in bed, put his glasses on and slip his mother's letter out from under his pillow. With shaking hands, he took the letter out of the envelope and his eyes already filling with tears unfolded it. He blinked a few times. Blowing out a long, steadying breath, he angled the letter toward the light shining in from the corridor and began to read.


	18. Chapter 18

"Sara, you're ready?"

Sara turned off her phone and slipped it inside her purse. "Sure am," she said, smiling at Finn as she shouldered her bag, and then falling into step with her out of the breakroom, "So where are we headed?"

Finn shrugged. "I don't mind. Somewhere quiet, preferably with no men in sight."

Sara's brow rose. "A female only diner, huh?"

Finn lightly nudged Sara in the side.

"No, I'm serious. One opened on Tropicana a few weeks back. I read about it. And it's not just for gay women either. Everyone's welcome." She had indeed read about it in the local paper, an article she'd sent on to Grissom, much to his amusement.

Finn scoffed. "As long as they've got breasts, huh?"

"I know men with breasts."

Finn winced in disgust, and Sara laughed. "Not your man, I hope."

Sara's smile was wide and amused. "Not my man." Reaching for their sunglasses, they stepped out of the lab into the bright sunshine.

"It's nice to see you happy again, Sara," Finn remarked, touching Sara on the arm affectionately.

Finn's words gave Sara pause, and turning she gave her friend a somewhat self-conscious smile. Finn was right, she thought. Despite the circumstances, having Grissom back in her life was enough to make her happy. "So, you got men trouble, huh?" she asked, needing to deflect attention, as they crossed over to their cars.

"Ah, you know me." Finn waved the issue aside. "Nothing a good old breakfast won't fix."

"Frank's?"

"Where else?"

When an hour later Sara pulled up on her driveway, she was ready for bed. She killed the engine, but remained behind the wheel for a few seconds, Grissom on her mind. He should have received Betty's letter by now, and she worried about the negative effect it would have on his already fragile state of mind. Betty couldn't have written a more perfect letter to him, but Sara knew his strong sense of shame and guilt meant that he'd be distraught all the same.

Stifling a yawn, she pulled the key out of the ignition, gathered her purse and jacket and got out of the car. She checked the mailbox, taking out a couple of letters. One was junk, but the other bore the Beaumont prison logo. As, smiling, she walked over to the front door, she slid a finger under the flap, tore into the envelope and pulled out two sheets. Grissom had written on both sides of the first sheet, while the second contained a very detailed, pencil-coloured drawing of a hibiscus flower, or so his careful lettering informed her.

Her heart swelled with love for him, and she paused at the porch, laughing to herself. Another flower to add to her collection, the ever-growing bouquet of lilies, roses and now a pink hibiscus he was composing for her. The scale and detail of each flower was faultless and, even though they looked copied from a book, she knew he would have drawn them from memory. A car drove past, breaking the spell, and still grinning Sara rummaged in her purse for her house keys.

As she put the key in the lock and then disabled the alarm, she scanned her eyes over the letter, immediately noticing the overall light-hearted mood. He obviously hadn't received either the care package she and Betty had put together for him, or Betty's letter, which wasn't surprising all things considered. The letters had probably crossed in the post. She didn't know whether to feel relieved, or not. Tiredly, she dumped her keys and sunglasses on the hall table and her purse on the floor. The answerphone showed one new message and automatically she pressed play.

Her letter from Grissom in hand, she moved to the lounge, tossed her jacket over the armchair and the letter onto the coffee table. She was sitting down to undo the laces on her boots when the quiet, hoarse voice that filled the silence stopped her dead in her tracks.

"Sara, honey, it's me, Gil."

He cleared his throat, and filled with an incredible sense of foreboding, Sara whipped her head toward the phone.

"I was hoping you'd be in, but…" he paused and let out a long breath, "you must still be at the lab. Never mind, I'll…try again later if I can." He was speaking so quietly now that she had trouble hearing him. "Between five and six pm, my time."

Sara waited for more, but the line went dead, cutting off the recording. Releasing the breath she'd been holding, she stood up and played the message again, turning the volume right up. Her heart was beating double time. Tears formed in her eyes as this time she heard, no, _felt_ his heartbreak through his voice, every shaky intake of breath telling her how hard it was for him to be making the call, and she cursed herself for agreeing to go out with Finn. He sounded so low, so beaten and depressed, that she knew he was calling because he'd finally received Betty's letter. She wished she could call him back, but knew that sadly that was impossible. What must he be going through?

Once more she listened to the message, this time paying attention to the time recorded on the answerphone when the call had been made – 7.45 am, or 9.45 his time. He would have waited as long as he could have to call before he was due to start work at ten in the hope that she was in. He had to have known, though, that unless she had the night off, that was never going to happen. It reminded her of when he had been working in Paris and she back in Vegas. All the missed calls, all the voice messages they'd left each other as they tried to accommodate the time difference into their routines, never quite managing.

Still, she blamed herself for not being there when he needed her. This was his first phone call home since she'd made contact with him, his first deliberate attempt at seeking help and talking with her, and she'd missed it. If she'd been home, she could have spoken to him, put his mind at rest and allay whatever negative feelings and thoughts he was harbouring, tell him not to worry, that Betty was fine and coping.

At a loss, she checked her email on her cell phone; there was nothing from him. They played their chess moves on alternate days, and it was her turn; she was still trying to come up with a way to save her queen. Swapping her phone for his letter on the coffee table, she moved to the bedroom. There, she took out a small evidence box from the closet shelf and sat on the edge of the bed with the box on her lap. Slowly, she lifted the lid off. All of Grissom's letters were neatly stacked there, in their envelopes and in chronological order.

On the right hand side, she'd neatly piled all of his sketches, writing the date she'd received each. She reread that day's letter, its overall positive tone contrasting starkly from his downcast one on the phone, sighed and then tidied the hibiscus flower with its companions. She thought about staying up to wait for the call, but she didn't think she could manage it without falling asleep. And getting to sleep afterwards would be almost impossible.

Wearily, she closed the blinds and got undressed in the semi-darkness, let the warm water of the shower soothe her aching muscles and took time to wash her hair. Afterwards, she cleaned her teeth, put night cream on her face, brushed and dried her hair. In her nightclothes, she fetched a glass of water from the kitchen and her phone from her purse. She set her alarm for 2.50 pm and then another one for 3pm, just in case she slept through the first one. That would give her about four and half hours sleep – if sleep came at all – until he called again.

Because, despite how cautious he'd sounded on the phone, she knew he would call again, and this time she would pick up. God, she missed him so much. Her eyes blurring suddenly, she pulled back her side of the covers and slipped inside the sheets, turning onto her side and closing her eyes. She imagined his body spooned behind hers, his arm wrapped tightly, possessively, comfortingly, around her waist, his breaths blowing warm and soothing on the back of her neck. Her tears fell silently, wetting her face and pillow. She didn't stop them.

The incessant ringing of the phone brought her back to consciousness. Disoriented, it took her a few seconds to shake off the sleep and get her bearings before it all came flooding back. Sitting up with a start, she snatched the flashing phone from the base on the bedside table and brought it to her ear.

"Gil!" she called breathlessly.

Distantly, she heard her cheerful voice on the answerphone outgoing message and quickly, lest he hung up, she pressed the green button to connect the call.

"Gil!" she called again, "I'm here. I'm here!"

She heard him sigh. "You were sleeping."

The softness in his voice stilled her racing heart. She rubbed at her eyes, then made to turn the bedside lamp on but thought better of it.

"I'm sorry," he then said in a whisper.

"No," she countered softly, unsure what he was apologising for, and sat up more comfortably with her back against the headboard. "Don't apologise, please. You got nothing to apologise for. Especially not waking me up. It's just…so good to hear your voice." Her eyes misted over and willing herself to keep her emotion in check, she squeezed them shut.

"It's good to hear yours too," he replied. And then after a pause, "How are you?"

"I'm good." She rubbed at her face tiredly. "I got another flower today – there're making quite a bunch."

"I'm glad you like them." The hint of pleasure in his voice made her smile. "You know that…when I run out of flowers to draw I'll turn to insects, right?"

Her smile widened. "I look forward to it."

There was a laden pause, and Sara knew pleasantries were over. "Sara, the reason I'm calling—"

Her smile vanished. "You got your mother's letter," she finished for him when he faltered.

He sighed. "I did. Yesterday. You know about it then. You read it?"

Hesitating only briefly, Sara opted for the truth. "Yes. She…" she gave a nervous laugh, "Betty, she came to the lab to show it to me. She wasn't sure about it but—"

"Oh, Sara," he said in a fraught whisper, cutting her short, his voice so sad and quiet that she could barely hear him. "I'm such a—"

"No," she interrupted heatedly before he could finish his sentence, "You're not a failure, or a coward." Her voice rose steadily, her words spoken before she could censure them, and she took a breath, checking herself. "Neither of us think that of you, Gil. So please, stop thinking it yourself."

There was a pause and Sara cursed herself for her lack of self-control and being so unsympathetic. Why couldn't she just keep her cool and let him talk? "I'm sorry," she then said, and wiped her hand over her eyes. "I didn't mean to sound so...harsh."

"You're right, though. It's just that…you shouldn't have to clean up my mess."

"I don't have to," she countered lightly, sincerely. "I choose to. Gil—"

"How is she?" he cut in earnestly.

"She's doing okay." Sara smiled. "Coping much better than I did when I found out."

"You said she came to the lab? Did she…huh…seek you out?"

She frowned. "How do you mean?"

"When she found out? Did she come to you?"

Again, Sara thought about her words carefully. "No. I went to her actually – before I knew she knew." She went on to tell him about her meal with Brass and the captain's worry that something had happened to Betty when she didn't reply to Grissom's last email; how they'd agreed she'd go and discreetly check on Betty. She told him in an embarrassed chuckle about making up the story about break-ins in the area, about practising all the signs for ages, about how Betty wasn't fooled. "I'm sorry I didn't let you know she knew," she said at last. "I thought about giving you a heads-up, you know? But then I thought…oh, I don't know what I thought."

"It doesn't matter now," he said, quieting her worries. "But is she alright? I mean, her health. Because that's what you and Jim thought, didn't you? That she was ill?"

"She's fine, Gil," she said as reassuringly as she could, and then more truthfully, "As far as I know anyway."

Grissom let out a long breath, and she could imagine it was in relief. "You okay?" she then asked, the concern in her voice undisguised.

He gave a sad chuckle, and she realised how stupid her question was. "I am now," he said, surprising her with his candour, and she knew he'd had a rough night. She couldn't make his pain go away, but she hoped talking to her now would lessen it, make it more bearable for him. She just wanted to wrap her arms around him and hold him tight. And yet from so far away she felt very powerless to help him, whatever comforting words she had to offer him no match for some physical contact.

"I guess now that the shock has passed," he went on, keeping his voice low as he spoke and Sara guessed it was in case he was overheard, "I feel…more relieved than anything. It doesn't take away from the fact that I did wrong by her – and you – but at least now it's all out in the open."

"You sound…you seem calmer than you did on the phone this morning."

"More resigned maybe. I'm slowly getting to realise that not very much is in my control."

Sara opened her mouth to object, but then realised that what he was saying was true. "It won't always be like that," she said at last.

"I can't help wondering who else knows, you know?" he continued desolately. "If it was that easy for my mother to find out, then anyone can."

Unsure how to respond, Sara remained silent. She thought about Hodges and the probing look he gave her when he recognised Betty at the lab the other day. Could he have looked Grissom up, maybe wanting to keep tabs on his old boss and on what he was up to now, and found out? Her cell alarm went off suddenly, refocusing her, and chuckling she reached over to silence it.

"What was that?" he asked, perking up.

"The alarm on my phone." She smiled. "I didn't want to sleep through your call. Are you going to write back to her?" she asked hesitantly when he kept quiet. "Your Mom, I mean. It would mean a lot to her."

"I know, and I am. I tried to earlier, but…I—I couldn't find the words. Tell her it might take a few days, but I'll get there."

Sara nodded into the phone. "I will."

"I wanted to thank you," he went on with renewed urgency, "you know, for…for being there, for what you're doing with Mom. I know it can't be easy. You've never seen eye-to-eye and…"

"You'd be impressed actually," she cut in, laughing. "My signing still isn't the best, but it's getting better and she's very intuitive. We're getting along just fine, Gil, so don't worry about us, all right?"

Again, Grissom didn't respond. "Anyway," he said, when silence stretched uncomfortably on the line, "I haven't got long left before I have to go. So, huh, tell me about you."

The request took her by surprise, and Sara smiled pleasurably. "I'm…sitting up in bed, in the dark, trying to figure out a way to save my queen from your clutches."

Grissom burst out laughing, a sound so unexpected, so loved and so missed that it brought tears to her eyes. "Is that a euphemism for something else?" he asked with disbelief.

Sara laughed. "I'll pretend you didn't say that."

He made a snorting sound, as though stifling a sob. "Oh, God, Sara. I miss you so much."

Sara blinked back her tears. "I miss you too." She closed her eyes and, as silence once again built between them, she guessed that like her he was trying to keep his composure.

"You're not thinking of resigning, are you?" he then said, coming back on the line, sounding falsely upbeat. "Because many a game has been won without a queen."

Sara made a disbelieving sound. "Not this one."

"Just keep looking beyond your next move," he said, stopping short.

Sara's heart sank; she too heard the recorded message announcing the imminent end of the call.

"My time's up," he needlessly said. "They're going to cut us off."

Sara sighed. "Okay. Will you call again?" she asked hopefully. "Please?"

"Sweetheart, I don't know. I—"

"It's okay," she cut in softly, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have pushed. It's just…really good to speak with you, that's all." Again, she found herself growing emotional.

"And my mother?"

"I'll go round tonight before shift. I'll let you know in an email how it went, okay?"

"Thank you. Will you…huh…tell her I'm…no, just…give her a hug for me, will you?" His voice broke, and her heart broke with it. She heard a sharp intake of breath before he came back on the line. "I got to go, Sara. Stay safe."

"I love you," she said urgently.

He was about to reply when the line went dead. Sara let out a long breath and closed her eyes. The tears she'd been holding back finally fell. And then she started laughing, quietly at first and then more forcefully. Because he'd called. He'd taken another step toward her by calling. It didn't matter if the call had been prompted by Betty's letter. She wiped at her tears. Despite how heart breaking their conversation had been, she was happy. She felt full of hope and optimism for speaking with him, and she hoped he did too.

She took in a deep breath she let out slowly. She knew it was silly to feel that way after one phone call, but she was excited, exhilarated even. She felt like celebrating, and only one person would understand and share her feelings of happiness. Without hesitation, she picked up her cell phone and set about composing a text message for Betty. She hadn't seen or spoken to Grissom's mother since the morning she'd read the letter and they'd put together the package for him.

 _Gil just called,_ she typed, adding a couple of exclamation marks to show her amazement. _He got your letter. He's okay. Would you like to come to dinner? 6pm?_

Sara waited a beat before she pressed send. Their common love for Grissom was what bound them and right then it was important to her that she nurtured that connection. Cell in hand, she got out of bed and padded to the lounge, sat down on the couch and studied the chessboard. _Keep looking beyond your next move_ , he'd said, and she wondered now whether it was a metaphor for something else. If it was, that something else eluded her. She opened her email, logged into her CorrLinks account and created a new email. She typed two words only – _Thank you_.

Sara opened the door as soon as she heard Betty pull up on the drive. Getting out of the car, the older woman returned Sara's smile brightly, then came over and the two women embraced warmly. Pulling back, Sara caught Betty's eyes, then signed that her next hug was from Grissom before opening her arms again and giving Betty a second, much tighter and longer embrace. When they pulled apart, Betty had tears in her eyes and a trembling smile on her face she lowered her hand from her chin in heartfelt thanks.

Then she raised her index finger, instructing Sara to wait, and rushed back to the passenger side of the car to take out her purse, a canvas tote bag and a small brown box she held very carefully. Sara's puzzlement morphed into a wide smile on recognising the Jean Philippe patisserie box. Since he had discovered a taste for the small sweets while working in Paris, Grissom would sometimes treat them to a mini French pastry, or two, or three, and she had a feeling he might have done the same thing with his mother.

Betty had another surprise in store, one she didn't reveal until after they'd finished the simple dinner Sara had put together and the cakes. The tote bag she'd brought along held a couple of thick, yellowed photo albums containing treasured pictures of Grissom, his parents, grand-parents and extended family as he grew up from a chubby baby to an exploring toddler, through to awkward teenage years, all the way up into young adulthood. The earlier shots were in black and white, the later ones in faded colour, but every single photograph kept Sara entranced and grinning throughout.

An expectant smile on her face, Betty alternated between looking at the pictures and at Sara, happy when Sara glanced up to give more detail about the occasion and share her memories. Sara watched Betty's hands and face as she signed, lapping it up. The cakes, the photo albums, the cherished memories, she understood what Betty was doing; she was bringing Grissom into their meal. She was bringing him home.

This way, he was with them in spirit and in heart, if not in body.


	19. Chapter 19

It took Grissom a few days to write his mother a letter he was happy with, but he got there in the end. It was difficult to put his feelings into words, but if his mother had managed to, and so eloquently, the least he could do was try. He read the letter again, adding a missing comma here and there, then neatly folded and slotted it in the envelope before he could change his mind about the content and start over. Carefully, he wrote his mother's name and address on the envelope, stuck a stamp on it and took it to the mailroom directly. He told Sara that he felt relieved that his mother knew the truth, and he did.

Shock at the unexpectedness of the news that she'd found out had made way to shame and guilt and self-loathing but he'd been through all those feelings before when Sara had discovered the truth and confronted him and he felt more able to cope now, more prepared, or more willing maybe, even mustering the courage to call Sara. Speaking with her, however hard and heart-breaking it had been, instead of leaving him deflated and depressed had filled him with hope and a sense that finally he was doing the right thing. At last, he could see to a time past his prison term. At last, he was beginning to feel better about himself.

"Grissom," Manuel exclaimed, cutting into his thoughts as he bounded into the room. Grissom looked up from his drawing and peered at Manuel over the rim of his glasses. "You'd never believe what just happened!"

One look at his cellmate told him not to worry, that it was good news. "They've cancelled all GED testing until further notice?" he hazarded, a wry smile spreading across his face.

Manuel waved a form in the air. "Not even close!"

His eyebrows rising, Grissom paused and put his paper and pencil down.

"My custody level's been reduced," Manuel blurted out, gesturing excitedly as the words spilled out. "They're shipping me out of here, man. I'm headed to minimum security."

Grissom's smile grew wide, yet a little sad. Even though Manuel's transfer had been in the cards, it still came as a shock. "That's great news."

"Oh, wait till I tell mi mama! And my girls!"

Chuckling, Grissom removed his glasses and swung his legs over the edge of his cot. "I'm happy for you. I really am. It's been a long time coming."

Nodding, Manuel put the form on the table before moving to the sink. "When the classification supervisor told me, I couldn't believe it, you know?" he said, catching Grissom's eyes in the mirror as he ran the faucet. "I thought he was having me on! I asked to be transferred closer to home."

Grissom's smile became wistful as he thought of home.

Manuel washed his hands and face, and drying himself with the towel turned to face Grissom. "Won't happen for a few weeks yet. Enough time to get the GED tests over and done with, and then I'm out of here!" Grinning, he gave his head a shake, still clearly incredulous at the news. "I can't fucking believe it."

Grissom mustered a wider smile. "I can."

"You did that, man," Manuel went on, looking earnest. " _You_ did that for me."

"Oh, I don't know."

"I do." He held Grissom's gaze levelly. "Without you, man, I'd still be…" His expression darkened suddenly, and he lowered his gaze before he gave his head a good shake, dispelling whatever he'd been about to say. Refocusing on Grissom, he smiled again but his smile hid a sadness and vulnerability that hadn't been there a moment ago.

"You know what, Grissom?" he went on softly. "You've been more of a father to me this last year than my real father ever was." His smile wavered, and he covered his growing emotion behind a chuckle. "I don't do all this soft shit, you know me, but I want you to know that…you've―you've changed my life."

Grissom's gaze lowered uncomfortably. "I just…pointed you in the right direction, that's all." Swallowing the sudden constriction in his throat, he looked back up. "It's up to you now to make the right choices. And really that's what life's all about."

"I know. It's just that sometimes the right choices aren't necessarily the obvious ones."

"That's true." Grissom's expression turned sad and distant at the thought of all the wrong choices he'd himself made in _his_ life.

"Grissom?" Manuel asked, drawing him back to the moment. Standing by his locker, he was getting his books out. "What kind of teacher were you, you know, before you got locked up?"

Grissom frowned. "Why?" he asked, suddenly uneasy. "Why do you want to know?"

Manuel shrugged. "I just wondered, that's all." He closed his locker door and came to sit at the table, spreading his books out.

A slow smile worked its way across Grissom's face and into his eyes. "A teacher of Science," he said at last. "I—I study bugs."

"Bugs?"

His shoulder rose. "Insects. I'm an entomologist." His automatic use of the present tense surprised him.

"Entomologist," Manuel repeated slowly, and it was clear it was the first time he heard the word. "And you liked it? You work, I mean? Did you like it?"

"Very much so." He chuckled. "Well, most of the time. Why do you ask?"

"I got to write a piece for my English class. I got to write about the job I think I'm best suited for. Or could be good at. My dream job, like. But something I could do for real."

Grissom made a musing sound. "And what's that then?"

"I don't know. That's the problem."

Grissom pursed his mouth, considering. "Is there anything you enjoyed doing before? Something you were good at?"

Manuel shrugged.

Grissom laughed. "You'll think of something."

Manuel gave an absent nod and opened his books while Grissom returned to his drawing. He was thinking back to what he'd told Manuel about being an entomologist when he remembered the article from _Entomology Today_ that Sara had printed off the internet and sent to him about the discovery of a new species of cockroach. Wordlessly, he got up and padded to his locker. He took the pile of Sara's letters, flicked back a few, and pulled out the article. He read the opening paragraph, looked at the accompanying photograph and chuckling to himself joined Manuel at the table.

"What is it?" the younger man asked, refocusing his attention on the article Grissom placed in front of him.

"It's an article Sara sent me. It's about what I do—did."

Frowning, Manuel started to read the article, his face creasing up into a deep wince the further he got, much to Grissom's amusement. " _That's_ what you're interested in?" he asked, looking up in disbelief.

Grissom shrugged. "Among other things, but yeah. Bugs are fascinating creatures," he went on. "Certainly a lot less complicated than humans."

That day, Grissom finished his work at the library a little early so he could stop by the commissary. He arrived with only a few minutes to spare before they shut for the day and quickly he filled in an order form. He wanted to buy a few candy bars and soda bottles to celebrate Manuel's good news, as well as soap and more stamps and envelopes. No one was waiting to be served and he went straight to the counter. He handed the form and his ID card over, and watched as the officer put the order through, checking Grissom had enough money in his trust fund account to cover the purchases.

"Is something the matter?" Grissom asked when the officer took longer than usual. He leaned forward but he couldn't get a good view of the computer screen through the safety window. "There should be more than enough money in the account."

"There is," the officer said, keeping his eyes on the computer as he pressed a few more keys. He printed off a form he placed in the transaction tray before looking up and sliding the tray over to Grissom. "Sign the form. You got a package."

Grissom frowned. "A package?"

The officer nodded.

"There must be a mistake. I mean, I didn't—haven't…I don't have any subscriptions or anything."

"It's from EcommDirect."

Grissom's puzzlement intensified. "What's that?"

"It's the purchase program which allows friends and family to buy commissary goods for inmates." The officer paused, looking surprised that Grissom didn't know about it. "Someone's been shopping for you. It's not your birthday, is it?"

Smiling at how sneaky Sara was, Grissom gave his head a shake. "No," he laughed.

"So, you don't want it?"

"I want it." Grissom picked up the form from the tray and signed his name at the bottom.

The officer moved to the back room, while Grissom waited somewhat impatiently. He couldn't wait to see what Sara had bought, and wondered why she hadn't mentioned it. He scanned his eyes over the form, checking for an order date, finding one dating from two weeks back. The officer returned with Grissom's purchases and a fairly large package he passed over through a safety hatch. His eyes lingering on the box, Grissom dutifully wrote his name, unit's name and inmate number on each envelope, and then with everything either carefully stacked up on top of the package or in his pants pockets headed back to the cell.

Manuel was sitting on his bunk, reading. Grissom put everything on the table, then gently dropped a Twix bar and a bottle of Coke in Manuel's lap before moving to his locker to put the rest of his purchases away.

"What's this for?" Manuel asked, surprised.

"To celebrate your good news," Grissom said, and tore into his own Twix wrapper.

His eyes lighting up with pleasure, Manuel put the book down and studied the bottle of Coke longingly. "Why don't we…have a finger each today and keep the other one for tomorrow?" he asked, watching as Grissom bit into his first finger.

"Ah, come on," Grissom said. "Live a little. We're celebrating. Both fingers now, or I take it all back. Besides…" He opened his locker door wider, showing Manuel its bulging content, "I got more."

Manuel didn't have to be told twice. "Someone's in a good mood. What's this?" he then asked in the same breath, his mouth still full, nodding at the package on the table while twisting the cap off his Coke bottle.

"It's from Sara."

Manuel finished chewing. "Is it your birthday?"

Grissom laughed. "No."

Manuel was looking perplexed. "So?" he prompted, eagerly nodding toward the box. "You going to open it, or what?"

Grissom lifted a casual shoulder. "I thought I might wait till lights-out and you're asleep," he said, deadpan, but he was so excited himself that he couldn't keep the straight face for long.

Manuel jumped down from his bunk to get a better look while Grissom carefully pulled at the adhesive tape, neatly opening the package.

"A fan," he said, bursting out laughing in disbelief, and looked at Manuel. "She got us a fan." His head shaking, he took out a box he quickly opened before carefully extracting a medium-sized desktop fan and unravelling the electrical cord he handed to Manuel to plug into the socket. He set it down on the table and turned it on.

Moving closer to the fan, Manuel bent down so cool air was blowing on his face. "Oh, I love your wife," he said in a sigh of pleasure, eyes closed as he angled his face left and right, then up and down, cooling every bit of it. Grissom scoffed, and grinning broadly, cheekily, Manuel reopened his eyes to give him a long sideways look.

"Where are we going to store it?" Grissom asked, ever the pragmatist, as he looked through the rest of Sara's purchases. Everything they owned – except for their shoes, which they could tidy away under the bunk beds – had to fit in their locker, or it was taken from them.

"I don't mind clearing some of the junk in my locker to make space for it, let me tell you. What else is in the box?"

"Clothing mainly," he said, spotting socks, underpants and a plain white cotton tee-shirt amongst a few toiletry items. "A few dry snacks, and this." His face lit up as he lifted a small jar of peanut butter out of the box.

Manuel's mouth opened in a perfect O of amazement. "Dios mío." He met Grissom's gaze and swallowed. "Your wife is an angel. I haven't had peanut butter in over five years."

A giddy smile tugging at his lips, Grissom twisted the lid off and peeled the protective paper away. He brought the jar to his nose and closing his eyes inhaled deeply. It smelled as good as he remembered. He was going to dip his finger in when he glanced at Manuel and smiled. "You do the honours," he said, holding the jar to Manuel. "We're celebrating your good news after all."

When Grissom returned to the cell after his evening class, it was empty. They were showing an NBA game on television and Manuel had said he'd go to watch it. The only problem with storing the fan in Manuel's locker was he couldn't get to it when he wanted to. Still - he checked his watch - not too long until rack time. After a quick wash at the sink, he made himself comfortable on the bed with his pad and pen, and began writing Sara a letter.

He was half-way through the first page when, feeling a presence at the cell door, he looked up. Armstrong stood there, watching him. Suddenly anxious, Grissom put Sara's letter down on his cot and got up.

"Armstrong," he said, warily glancing past the big man to the corridor and the housing unit beyond, "What can I do for you?"

The corner of Armstrong's lip curled up in a sneer. "It's more a case of what I can do for you."

Grissom swallowed. "How do you mean?"

Looking left and right, Armstrong stepped inside the cell. Then he opened his hands out in front of him and turning them over looked at them as if seeing them for the first time. "My appeal to the parole board got denied," he said, flicking his eyes back up to Grissom.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Grissom said. "But you know how it works. It takes more than one try."

"They said you were the best," Armstrong went on, closing the distance to Grissom. "And your rates certainly indicated as much."

"You need me to write you another letter?" Grissom tried.

Armstrong scoffed **.** "Are you shitting me? Sure, I do," he said breezily. "But first…" Holding Grissom's gaze meaningfully, he let his words trail off.

Grissom hid his sudden fear behind a smirk. "Oh, come on," he said. "I'm sure we can come to an arrangement."

"I've a reputation to maintain."

Grissom scanned quick eyes over Armstrong's body, checking for a weapon. He couldn't see one.

Armstrong shrugged. "I don't make the rules. That's how it's done in this place."

Grissom glanced toward the cell door, but he'd never be quick enough to make it past Armstrong. He could call for help, but he knew the call would be ignored by the other inmates and even if it wasn't help wouldn't come fast enough. Armstrong's associates were probably nearby too, keeping guard. He was no match for Armstrong, and he knew he was about to take a beating.

"At least, take your glasses off," Armstrong said, on cue.

"I won't fight you."

"Why do you train, if it's not to fight when you need to?"

Grissom held Armstrong's gaze steadily, but didn't reply, and Armstrong shook his head.

"Fine. Have it your way. Be a fool, what do I care? I'm surprised you lasted as long as you did."

He should have been ready, but he never saw the punch coming, never had time to raise his arms to protect himself. Armstrong's arm had swung low and quick, his large fist connecting with the left side of Grissom's stomach with enough force to cause serious damage. Spluttering, Grissom doubled over in pain. The second blow caught him square in the jaw, knocking his glasses off his face, sending his head flying upwards, backwards, until it struck the metal edge of the top bunk.

Automatically, Grissom held out his hands to steady himself but unable to catch his breath he fell on to his hands and knees on the concrete floor. His head was throbbing; he could taste blood in his mouth. Worse was the pain in his stomach, spreading to his chest and left shoulder. He tried to get up but, unable to, remained gasping for air, Armstrong breathing hard above him.

"Come on, Grissom, get up," Armstrong said. "I didn't hit you that hard."

Still on all fours, Grissom lowered himself onto his forearms and closed his eyes, trying to stop his head from spinning. Armstrong shifted uneasily next to him, his shower-shoes clad feet near his right hand. Opening his eyes, Grissom took his chance. Armstrong moved his feet again, restless, hesitating. Laughing voices approaching had him tense.

"This is not over," he gritted, bending down low over Grissom.

Grissom thought he was finally leaving, when he felt strong hands help him up before they lowered him down onto the cot. That way what had just taken place wouldn't be so obvious if someone were to walk past and look in. There was a crunch as, taking flight, Armstrong stepped on his glasses, and finally silence. Grissom tried to turn onto his back, but the pain in his abdomen and chest intensified and curling himself up onto his left side he let out a low groan.

"Hey, Grissom."

Manuel's voice brought him back to consciousness.

"It's a bit too early for sleep, isn't it?" Manuel said, laughing.

Grissom tried to reply, tell Manuel to call for help, but all that came out was an incomprehensible mumble.

"Grissom, you okay?" Manuel asked with concern, pausing. "You're not feeling well? Something you ate maybe? I swear they feed us expired food."

Again, Grissom made a sound, weakly moving his head, exacerbating the throbbing pain.

Manuel kneeled down by the bed. "Grissom?" A hand touched his forehead from behind, as though feeling for a fever, sticking to the drying blood on his temple. "Oh, God, Grissom what's happened? You hurt?" He slowly raised Grissom's head before slipping the pillow underneath it. "Did you fall, hit your head?"

"No."

"What happened?" Manuel asked again, his tone showing desperation now, and then more harshly as if the penny had suddenly dropped, "Did someone do this to you? Grissom?" He waited a beat, but feeling faint and confused, Grissom didn't reply. "Was it Armstrong? Did Armstrong do this? Grissom?"

He made to roll Grissom onto his back but stopped when Grissom cried out in pain.

"Someone. Help!" he called loudly, the panic undisguised in his voice as he shouted out the floor and number of their cell. "If Armstrong's behind this," he then told Grissom between greeted teeth, "I'm going to kill him. You hear me, Grissom, I'll kill the son of a bitch."

"No," Grissom gasped.

"I'm going to fucking kill him!" Manuel left Grissom's side, rushing to the cell door. "Someone, help! Grissom's hurt, we need a doctor!"

A few inmates stuck their heads out of the cells, but no one rushed to help.

"Help!" Manuel called again from the top of his voice. Once again, he shouted the floor and cell number.

When at last the siren sounded in the unit, announcing a lockdown and instructing people to stay where they were, Manuel rushed back to Grissom's side. "Hang in there, alright?" he said in a breathless whisper, clearly panicked now. "Help is on the way."

Grissom tried to open his eyes, managed another moan.

"Fuck," Manuel muttered, followed by a cry of agony as frantically he began pacing about the cell. "I'm going to kill him," he said again, "I'm going to fucking kill him."

"No," Grissom rasped, gasping with pain. Manuel returned to his side, and weakly he caught the younger man by the shirt. "No," he said again, weakly opening his eyes. "Don't do anything stupid."

Manuel's expression hardened.

"Promise me," Grissom rasped more forcefully than even he expected, and took a shallow breath.

Manuel made a low, frustrating sound, almost a growl.

"Promise me!"

The muscles in Manuel's jaw bunched tightly.

"Say it!" Grissom snapped, squeezing his eyes shut at the sudden stab of pain that coursed through him. "No matter what happens."

"I promise."

Letting out a short, fraught a breath, Grissom released the hold he had on Manuel's shirt, flopped back onto the cot and took a few shallow breaths. Then he opened his eyes again and weakly lifted his fisted right hand. "Evidence," he said in a raspy whisper.

Manuel registered a look of puzzlement. "What?"

"Evidence," Grissom repeated, a little louder this time. "My hand, under my nails, Armstrong's DNA."

Manuel's look of confusion intensified.

"My hand," Grissom insisted, and Manuel lowered his gaze to Grissom's hand. "Armstrong's skin. His DNA."

Understanding finally dawning, Manuel brought his eyes back to Grissom's face.

"Tell Riley," he gasped, feeling whatever little strength he had left drain away.

Manuel nodded his head, and Grissom closed his eyes again tiredly. He just wanted to let go and go to sleep. Distantly, he heard two officers finally arrive. "What's wrong?" one officer asked, offhandedly, from outside the cell.

"It's Grissom. He's been hurt."

"How do you mean he's been hurt?" The officer's voice sounded hard, suspicious.

"Look at him!"

"Keep your trap shut, Ortega," a warning voice shouted up from a nearby cell.

The officer immediately called for backup on his radio, while the second officer shouted at Manuel to turn around with his hands above his head. Recognising Officer Riley's voice, Grissom sighed in relief.

"You know the drill," Riley told Manuel, and Grissom could well imagine Manuel nodding his head as hands held up he turned around to face the wall in order to be handcuffed and eventually taken away. Then came Manuel's frantic but hushed explanation about finding Grissom in bed, unconscious and finally the words evidence in his right hand and DNA. He felt himself drift off.

"Grissom?" the other officer called, reaching his side. "Can you tell me where you're hurt?" And then moving his face closer when Grissom didn't reply, "Grissom? Where you hurt?"

"Sto-mach," Grissom muttered drowsily.

Grissom felt two fingers press against his throat. "Stay with us, okay? Help's on the way.

"Sa-ra."

"Stabbed?" the officer queried, "Is that what you're trying to say?" And then louder, "Did he just say he was stabbed? Ortega?"

"I don't know," Manuel replied, panicked, and then helplessly, "I don't know. I don't think so. There's not enough blood, is there?" And then when Grissom began groaning and moaning again, "Come on, do something! What's taking so long?"

"Help's on the way," the first officer replied calmly, "Alright?"

"Where's the blood come from?" Riley then asked quietly. "The blood on your fingers."

"I didn't do this!" Manuel immediately defended. "I swear to god, I had nothing to do with this. I just came back from watching the game and found him like this!"

"Sa—ra," Grissom tried again.

"What's he saying?" Riley asked.

There was a pause, and Grissom mumbled Sara's name again.

"I think he's calling for his wife," Manuel said at last. "She's called Sara. It's okay," he then said, addressing Grissom. "Don't you worry about that now. Just..." More officers came in, carrying equipment and a stretcher. "Help's here. They're going to take care of you, alright? Riley? He's going to be fine, isn't he?" Manuel asked again, his voice fading.

Distantly, Grissom heard Riley instruct one of the paramedics to protect the right hand as much as they could, that there was crucial evidence there and Grissom let out another long breath before finally he stopped fighting the drowsiness.

"You hang in there, Grissom," Riley said, as he slipped into unconsciousness. "Don't you worry. We'll catch the son of a bitch who did this to you."


	20. Chapter 20

A/N: Just in case you're wondering…toward the end of the chapter I mention TDC. It stands for Texas Department of Corrections. And BOP for Bureau of Prisons.

Thanks for reading and as always for your support with the story.

* * *

As it had become her habit, the first thing Sara did when she came home from work that morning was to check her mailbox, only to find it depressingly empty. It was the third day in a row now, without a letter, five since his last email thanking her for the care package. The fan was very much appreciated, he'd written, especially by Manuel who'd immediately tossed out a lot of his own stuff to make space for it in his locker. Manuel had called her an angel, and, even now, it made her smile.

The tone of Grissom's email had been so happy and upbeat. She'd emailed back straightaway, telling him that his mother had had a hand in the package too, but hadn't heard back since. At first, she'd thought nothing of the lack of correspondence, had put the stop in emails down to the CorrLinks server being down, but the lack of letters worried her, especially as the days didn't coincide with the weekend when she knew he wasn't able to mail anything out.

She also knew that his receiving his mother's letter wasn't the cause for this silence, as Betty had only been too happy to text Sara her excitement on finally getting a reply from her son. She tried not to worry, rationalising that the most likely explanation was another lockdown, but the not knowing left her uneasy and tense.

Inside the house, she put some music on and, after eating a little breakfast, ran herself a bath in the hope that it would soothe her. Still, as she lay in the tub, her mind churned with all the possibilities. When afterwards she couldn't get to sleep, she turned the bedside light on and sitting up in bed reached for her cell phone.

Connecting to the internet, she opened the Beaumont Medium Security Prison website she kept bookmarked and checked for mentions of a lockdown. Finding nothing, she looked up the facility's phone number and hesitantly put a call through. After the usual short delay in connecting, the call rang and rang and rang, just as it had done the last time she'd rung the prison. She gave a long, weary sigh, and just as she was about to give up a female voice finally spoke.

"FCI Beaumont medium, how may I help you?"

"Oh, hi," Sara said, caught by surprise, and sat up straighter in bed. "I'm…well…" She took a deep breath, tried to put some order into the turmoil in her head. "I wondered if you could help me."

"I'll sure try," the operator said pleasantly.

"Well, I'm calling to see if the prison is on lockdown."

"I'm happy to say it's not, ma'am."

"Oh," Sara uttered, unsure whether to rejoice or worry at the news. "Could…individual units be on lockdown maybe? I hear sometimes that can happen."

"It can, but not right now. The whole facility is running as normal."

"Oh, okay." Pausing, she got up from the bed and began pacing the room. Even if there had been a momentary lockdown, she couldn't help thinking, that was now lifted, she knew Grissom would have got an email out to her to let her know. "It's just…I haven't heard from my husband in five days and I'm beginning to worry."

"I understand, but these things happen, you know? Maybe he's been busy."

"No. He always writes, however busy he is. He always gets news out to me so I don't worry."

"I understand your concern," the operator said matter-of-factly, and Sara wondered how many women called her with similar queries every day. "Why don't you…give it a few more days? A letter's probably on the way as we speak." The operator gave a small chuckle. "Or he's run out of money to buy stamps or pay for email and phone calls. Happens all the time."

Sara had thought about that but, as she'd only just topped up his account, she doubted it was the case.

"Or maybe he's been put in Ad-Seg and lost his privileges," the operator went on, her tone a little too cheerful for Sara's liking.

Sara's eyes narrowed. "Ad-Seg?" she repeated musingly. Now that she hadn't considered.

"Administrative segregation. The hole. It's when—"

"I know what the hole is," she cut in brusquely, not bothering to conceal her sudden fear and anxiety. She couldn't believe he would have done anything to warrant such severe punishment, but it certainly would explain the lack of news. She closed her eyes and took a breath, checking her tone. "Is that something you could check for me?"

"Sure," the operator replied, a trace of impatience in her voice. "Can I have the inmate number and name please?"

Sara gave the information to her and waited expectantly.

"Well, the good news is, he's not in the hole," the operator said, coming back on the line. "Says here he's being moved."

"Moved?"

"Transferred. To another facility. Doesn't say where though. Just that he's in transit."

The news left her momentarily speechless. "And how long does a transfer take?"

"Days, weeks sometimes. Depends where he's being transferred to. And _that_ explains why he hasn't written. You won't hear from him while he's in transit. Any mail he gets sent here will be forwarded on to his new address, eventually."

Letting out a long breath, Sara rubbed her face and sat down at the edge of the bed. "I don't understand," she said in a low voice. "Why didn't he tell me?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, that's all I know. Just keep checking the federal inmate locator. It's on the BOP website. It'll get updated when he's at his new facility."

Sara sighed. "Thank you."

"Anything else I can help you with today?"

"No, thank you."

"Have a nice day, ma'am."

After ending the call, Sara remained sitting on the edge of the bed, lost in thoughts for a long moment. She couldn't help thinking that if Grissom had known about the transfer he would have mentioned it. And if the transfer had been sprung on him, why? She retrieved her laptop and took it to bed. Then she connected to the BOP website before entering Grissom's particulars to try to locate him. The site didn't even mention he was in transit; as far as they were concerned Grissom was still an inmate in FCI Beaumont Medium Security Prison.

With a sigh, she opened a new tab and typed 'inmate transfers Texas' in the search engine. First, she clicked on the official site and read about the various reasons why an inmate would be moved from one facility to another. Apart from a change in custody level, which she knew Grissom wasn't due yet, none of the other reasons applied to him. At a loss, she logged on to the Prison Talk online community and read all about the unofficial reasons, and those scared her. Transfers because of overcrowding, bullying and violence were just as common. One thread led to another that led to another and she kept on reading until her eyes grew heavy.

Reading about other people's stories, their fears and worries, similar to hers, helped. Regardless of their background, social status or place of residence, she and them had one thing in common; a loved one behind bars. She thought about calling Brass to ask if he could call his contact at the prison and find out where Grissom was being moved to. Would the contact even know? She checked the time, figured Brass would most probably be catching up on sleep and decided to wait.

She would keep checking the inmate locator website until Grissom's status was finally updated and then their lives would hopefully return to a semblance of a routine. When her eyes refused to focus anymore, she closed the lid on the laptop, pushed it on Grissom's side of the bed and turning off the bedside light finally went to sleep.

When she got to the lab that night, Brass was in DB's office. Sara knocked on the open door and smiled when the two men turned toward her. "Hey, Jim," she said to Brass, smiling, a greeting Brass returned warmly. Feeling Brass's gaze linger on her face, she looked over at DB. "You want me to give out assignments tonight?"

DB checked the time on his watch, registering surprise at how late it already was. "Oh, that'd be great, Sara, thank you." Leaning forward, he rummaged through open case files, finally locating a small stack of assignment slips he held out to her.

Stepping forward, Sara took the proffered slips. "Everything okay?" she asked, her gaze flicking between the two men.

"Sure," DB replied. "Jim and I are just going over Ashley Simpson's file before it goes to the DA's office."

"Have fun," she said, in a fake sing-song voice as she backed toward the door.

"Actually," Brass said, turning toward DB as he stood. "Do you mind if I have a word with Sara now? It won't take long."

His eyes flicking between the two, DB nodded his head. "Sure," he said, pushing to his feet. He walked round the desk, snatching the slips from Sara's hand. "I'm afraid you're going to have the last pick of the bunch."

"That's okay," she replied, eying Brass suspiciously as she wondered suddenly whether, unlike her, he knew Grissom's whereabouts.

DB had a moment's pause before he left the office, quietly closing the door after him.

"How are you?" Brass asked, his gaze soft with concern.

"I'm fine. You?"

Brass registered a look of surprise at Sara's tone.

"I'm sorry," she said, immediately contrite. "I didn't get much sleep."

"I can tell." Brass smiled, then opened his hands out, apologising for his candour. "What's wrong? Is it Gil?"

She gave a quiet nod of the head in reply. "Did you know he was being transferred?"

Brass opened his mouth, only to shut it again. "No. I—I didn't."

Trying to decide if the captain was being truthful, Sara watched him carefully.

"What? You don't believe me?" he defended, with an uneasy laugh.

Figuring Brass was as much in the dark as she was, she sighed. "I do." She gave her head a shake. "I'm sorry. It's just…come as a bit of a surprise, that's all."

"Are they moving him closer to home?"

"I don't know. That's the thing," she said, taking a seat. "I haven't heard from him in five days, Jim, and I only found out he was being moved when I phoned the prison. The operator didn't know where." She gave a wry smile. "Or if she did, she didn't tell me."

"Well, that's the first I've heard of it." Brass sat down next to her and wiped at his face. "And Gil didn't mention it?"

"Nope. He didn't say anything."

"Maybe he didn't know himself," Brass reasoned. "Sometimes, inmates get transferred at short notice."

"Too short a notice to send an email?" The disbelief in Sara's voice was obvious. "I worry something's happened. According to my time line, the last correspondence I received from him was an email thanking me for the care package I sent him. The letters I got since were sent beforehand." She let out a long breath."I looked it up, Jim. According to the BOP transfers happen for a variety of reasons, but none apply to Gil. A transfer would have to be planned in advance, wouldn't it?"

"You'd think so."

"If he had known he was being moved, I'm sure Gil would have said."

Brass nodded his head. "Unless…" He gave a long sigh and shrugged his shoulders, and Sara picked up on his train of thought immediately.

"You think his cover got blown and they had to move him?" Panic set in as she considered the implications.

"Maybe. I don't know. But that would explain both why he was moved so quickly and why he didn't tell you. He probably didn't want to worry you."

"Well, it didn't work." She made a frustrated sound. "It's the not-knowing, you know? That's what's getting to me."

Reaching out his hand, Brass patted her arm affectionately.

"Just when we were started to reconnect." Tears built up in her eyes, but she kept them in. "Are we ever going to catch a break?"

Brass covered her hand with his and gave it a squeeze. "I know it's tough right now, but you will. How long as he got left? A year?"

"Just under."

Brass gently bumped her shoulder. "He'll be out in less."

Appreciating his attempt at cheering her up, Sara smiled. "I hope so."

"Sure he will," Brass insisted brightly. "He's earning his parole and early release as we speak." He paused. "Do you want me to call my contact? See if I can find out where he's headed?"

Her smile widening, Sara nodded her head.

"No guarantees, but I'll try."

A busy shift kept her mind occupied and the hours ticking by relatively quickly. When she finally got home the next morning and checked her mailbox, she found a letter bearing the Beaumont Prison logo waiting for her. Her heartbeat quickened as a wide smile spread on her face, the wave of relief that washed over her instantly dissipating her weariness. She let herself into the house, dumping her jacket, purse and keys on the floor as gently kicking the door shut she disabled the alarm.

Her feelings of elation didn't last long. She was moving to the lounge when she turned the letter over and the grin dropped off her face as suddenly as it had appeared. It wasn't Grissom's familiar handwriting on the front of the envelope, but large block print she didn't recognise. When she checked the top corner, she saw the letter was from Manuel, his cellmate. She knew instinctively it was bad news.

Her pulse racing, she stopped dead in her tracks and slipped a shaky finger under the flap, hastily tearing the envelope open. There was only one sheet, written on both sides in the same block print. Blowing out a deep, steadying breath, she began to read.

 _Sara,_

 _I hope you don't mind I call you Sara, but Mrs G sounds too formal somehow. Anyhow, I'm writing you from the hole. Not because I've done anything wrong but because it's not safe for me to be in with the general population._

 _Don't matter anyway because I'm getting shipped out of here soon. Sonner than expected, which means I won't probably get to see G again. Something happened, Sara, which is why I'm writing. I know how worried you must be not getting any news for so many days. Mi mama she always worries. I know how it works and the families are always the last ones to be told what's going on._

 _I got to be careful what I write or they'll reject the letter, and maybe you won't get to read it anyway, but it's worth a try, isn't it? Because I needed to write and let you know. It's the least I can do in the circumstance. And besides he'd have done it for me._

As she read, Sara sat down at the edge of the couch. She couldn't read Manuel's words fast enough. By this point, she knew something bad had happened to Grissom, but she daren't let her imagination run wild. The letter was trembling in her hands but despite her growing anxiety, she still managed to hold on to her tears. Not for long.

 _Anyways, a few days ago G got hurt. I wish I could go into details of how, or mention names, but I can't. All I can say is that he got hurt bad enough that he got moved out. Word is they took him to a hospital outside the wall. I don't know how he is, or where he is exactly. When I ask the COs, they say they don't know._

 _Maybe if you phone them they'll tell you where he is? Me I don't matter to them, and they won't tell me shit, excuse my French. G taught me the phrase, which is an odd phrase for me to use as I'm Mexican and I don't speak French. G taught me a lot of things._

 _They know who the guy is, everyone does, but they can't do nothing, not until they got proof. I would have snitched or got revenge, but G made me promise. Said I didn't need to. See, he did enough himself, keeping evidence, so that they could catch the guy. And maybe they have already, I don't know. He's clever like that, your husband, but you probably know that already._

 _I wish I'd been there. I wish I didn't go to watch that stupid game. Maybe then I could have gotten help to him sooner. I just feel so bad about what happened. I can't help thinking that I let him down, you know? That if I'd been there with him he'd have been fine._

 _If you write him, they'll forward the letters to wherever he is. Or they should. When you write him, can you let him know I'm thinking of him? And tell him thank you for everything. Tell him I'm already making the right choices, like he said._

 _If I write you with my new address when I know it, will you write back and give me news? We won't be allowed to write each other, me and G, not until we're both out. Maybe you can be our go-between?_

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Manuel Ortega._

 _PS: Sorry for the mistakes._

 _PPS: His glasses got broke._

The irony of Manuel's last two lines made her smile despite her heartache. She wiped at her eyes and went over the letter a second time and then a third, trying to read between the lines. Sara felt Manuel's desperation, his powerlessness at not being able to help, at the lack of news, because she shared in these feelings exactly. She appreciated he'd gone out on a limb to pass on the news. Grissom had obviously grown to mean as much to Manuel as what the younger man had so clearly meant to Grissom.

The prison system was notoriously tight-lipped about what went on behind the walls, and she was surprised Manuel's letter had made it out at all. Either someone had been slack in the mailroom, or the officers held Grissom in high enough esteem that they'd made an exception. Overwhelmed, she rummaged in her purse for her cell and called Brass. When his voicemail kicked in, she left a harried message, saying she was on her way over, while finding her car keys and shoving Manuel's letter in her purse. Only Brass could help her.

She drove on autopilot and with tears in her eyes, her mind on what could possibly have happened and on how badly hurt Grissom was. He had to have sustained life threatening injuries, right, if they'd gone to the trouble of taking him to a hospital rather than the prison medical facility? But if that was the case, why hadn't she, or his mother, or even Brass who had a contact on the inside, been informed? What about Grissom's attorney?

The traffic was fluid at that time of day and she got to Brass's neighbourhood in North Vegas in under twenty minutes. If he wasn't home yet, then she'd head over to the station. As it was, she spotted his car in the driveway and pulling up at the curb breathed a sigh of relief. She jogged over to the front door, knocked first then rang the bell, and when that didn't seem to rouse Brass fast enough banged her fist to the door.

"Jim! Come on, hurry up," she called, hearing noises on the other side. "It's me. Sara."

The locked turned, and a bleary-eyed Brass appeared. "What's wrong?" he asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he opened the door. Dressed in a faded LVPD T-shirt and sweat shorts, he stepped back to let Sara in and closed the door.

"I heard from Gil. Well, not from him exactly but from Manuel, his cellmate." Reaching inside her purse, she took out the letter. "He's not being transferred. Or if he is—was, it was to a hospital. He's been hurt, Jim, badly. He was attacked."

Brass snatched Manuel's letter from Sara's hand and headed to the lounge to read it. Sara followed, sitting down on an armchair, only to jump up again and start pacing anxiously.

"Manuel doesn't know what's wrong with him," she said, needlessly as Brass was reading the letter for himself. "All he says is that Gil got hurt. But how hurt would you have to be to be taken outside of the prison?"

"Quite badly," Brass said, not looking up from his reading.

Brass's words did nothing to appease her tension. "Manuel says that if he'd got to him sooner it might not have been as bad. Maybe he got some internal bleeding. What if they didn't get to him early enough? What if—"

A deep frown creasing his brow, Brass looked up from the letter. "Sara, calm down, will you? If his injuries were life threatening, the TDC would have let you know."

"Would they?" she countered.

Brass held her probing stare briefly, but it was clear he shared in her doubts. "I left a message with my contact last night, but I haven't heard back."

Deflated, she nodded her head. "So what do we do now?" she asked when Brass looked up from finishing reading the letter.

"Well, you're going to find out which hospital he's likely been taken to while I make us some coffee."

Standing, Brass returned the letter to her before disappearing through to the kitchen, and dropping down into the armchair, Sara took her cell out of her purse. She turned her data on and began searching the internet for a list of Texas prison hospitals. She'd call every single one if she had to.

"Don't use your phone," Brass called through to her. "My laptop is on the pile of magazines next to the couch."

Sara didn't need to be told twice, immediately swapping her phone for the laptop. "It wants a password," she said, when she opened the lid.

Brass returned, and Sara turned the laptop round so he could type in his password.

"He's fine, okay?" Brass said, touching her on the shoulder. "So don't worry. We'll get to the bottom of it."

Looking up, she nodded her head and mustered a small smile. If only she could believe it. Brass went back to the kitchen while she connected to the internet and resumed her search. As it was, they were in luck. There were quite a few medical units dotted around Texas, but only one hospital that dealt with inmates undergoing intensive medical treatment, located in Galveston. She'd start there. And Brass was right too, she found out; unless the inmate's medical condition was life threatening the TDC would _not_ contact next of kin to let them know.

Once again, she felt her anger rising at the unfairness of a system that didn't even deem it necessary to inform families of their loved ones' ill health. Brass came back into the room carrying two cups, one he placed on top of some paperwork on a side table near Sara, the second he kept.

"Thanks," she said, not looking up.

Brass eased himself down onto the couch. "So?"

Sara felt tears rise suddenly. "I'm going, Jim."

"Going where?" Brass asked, looking confused as he took a sip of his coffee.

She looked up. "Galveston. I'm pretty sure that's where they took him."

"They won't let you anywhere near him, Sara," Brass said in a caring tone. "We'll call the hospital, find out his condition and then take it from there."

Her face darkened with resolve. "I don't care what strings you're going to have to pull, but you'd better pull them tight." She pinched her lips, but her tears spilled nevertheless, her next words spoken in a barely stifled sob, "'Cos there's no way I'm not going to go see him."

And Betty would go too; she'd made sure of that.


	21. Chapter 21

"Do you think you could take the catheter out?" Grissom asked the nurse as she bent down to check his urine output. "I promise not to make a run for it, if that's what you're worried about."

Straightening up, the nurse gave a small chuckle. "Oh, I'm not worried about that." Pausing, she flicked her eyes up from the chart she was filling in. "Is it causing you discomfort? The catheter, I mean."

"A little."

"I'll check with the doc when he does his rounds, but I don't see why not. Everything seems to be working fine that end and the quicker you can start moving about a little, the better."

"Thank you," he said softly, holding her gaze gratefully when she looked back up.

The nurse gave a nod before moving to check the nasogastric tube inserted in his nose, used for suctioning residual post-operatic bleeds in his stomach. Grissom closed his eyes and let her do her work. She was nice and gentle, much nicer than the offhand male nurse that had looked after him the previous day. He understood the risk he posed to staff and other patients, that hospital personnel weren't supposed to fraternise with him, a potentially dangerous inmate, but still there were no reasons to be rude or uncaring.

After collapsing in his cell following Armstrong's attack, he'd been stretchered out and taken to the prison's medical facility for monitoring. Badly bruised ribs and abdomen on the left side as well as mild concussion had been promptly diagnosed and didn't warrant any other treatment than rest, pain medication and monitoring for a day or two until he was sent back to his cell. But when his condition, instead of improving, had slowly deteriorated, his blood pressure dropping to dangerously low levels, the doctors began to worry. Fearing some internal damage and bleeding, they'd had him transferred out to Galveston prison hospital for a CT scan.

Drugged up and drowsy, Grissom didn't recall much of those first few days, except for the fact that he was weak and in pain, but he now knew that his bruised ribs had hidden a substantial splenic bleed. His spleen, already damaged in the car crash he had caused, had suffered a significant tear that had needed surgery to repair. Two days later, he was still sore and tender but getting stronger and mainly pain-free. And as he lay there, with the other sick prisoners – much sicker than him it would appear – and the nurse fussing around him, he thought about his life and how twice now it could have ended early.

"Do you know how long they're going to keep me here?" he asked the nurse, quietly reopening his eyes.

"I'm afraid not. Post-operative care for this kind of surgery can take up to two weeks, but we're short of space so they might decide to move you back before that."

"Let's hope so."

The quicker he could get back to Beaumont, even if it was back in the medical facility, the better as far as he was concerned. He was worried about Manuel and feared the younger man had taken the law into his own hands, seeking revenge for the attack. He hoped with all his heart Manuel hadn't – the consequent reprimand if caught would certainly jeopardise his change in custody level and subsequent transfer – but Manuel was nothing if not hot-headed and incredibly loyal to his friends, indeed paying a hefty price behind bars for that loyalty.

And then there was Sara. For just over a week now, he hadn't been able to get news out to her. He knew she would be worried, but hopefully she'd just think that they were on lockdown again. Worst case scenario, he figured, the TDC would have written to her, notifying her that, unwell, he had been moved out to a hospital so he could receive the care he needed, in which case she would be doubly worried and desperate for an update he wasn't able to give her.

"You know," the nurse went on, drawing him out of his thoughts, "normally prisoners are in no hurry to get back to wherever it is they came from."

Grissom shrugged. "Here I can't do the thing I most want to do right now."

"Oh, and what's that?" she asked lightly, interestedly, but the sudden change in her expression told him she'd forgotten herself.

He gave a wistful smile. "I'd like to…be able to write to my wife," he replied candidly. "Tell her I'm okay. Not to worry." He chuckled lightly. "Not that I could see what I was writing anyway." He paused as a thought occurred. "I suppose a phone call is out of the question?"

"I'm afraid so."

The smile lingering on his face, Grissom nodded his head and then closed his eyes again. The nurse finished caring for him, then moved on to the next patient, only to return some time later with the doctor. His healing wounds were checked. The NG tube and catheter were removed, his pain medication reduced to a lower dose, and he was told that indeed he would be transferred back to the medical facility in his prison within the week. He didn't know whether to feel relieved or not at the news.

"I don't suppose next of kin get notify, do they?" Grissom asked the doctor. "When there is a medical emergency?"

"No, they don't. No. Not unless the patient is in a critical condition."

"And I don't qualify?"

The doctor laughed. "You might have done if you'd got to us any later, but no. The tear was in a good place and we were able to repair it. There shouldn't be any lasting damage, provided you receive the appropriate after care and you take it easy for a while."

Grissom nodded his gratitude. "Thank you. I—I appreciate what you've done."

"Only doing my job."

"Still, thank you."

The doctor gave a nod of acknowledgement. "I'll see you again tomorrow."

"I'm not going anywhere."

After eating a light lunch, Grissom dozed off. A correctional officer moving furniture around him woke him some time later. A chair replaced the tray table next to his bed and the curtain had been pulled right around, fully opening up his cubicle. The officer moved around him, wordlessly checking one thing and then another, much to Grissom's growing puzzlement. It was only when the officer removed the handcuff chaining him to the bedrail that he spoke.

"What's happening?"

"You got a visitor," the officer replied gruffly without making eye contact.

Grissom registered a look of surprise. "A visitor?"

"Two actually."

His heart quickened in anticipation as a smile formed on his face. "My wife?"

"A resourceful woman, that's for sure. With friends in high places."

Grissom's smile was wide and happy. "She's here?"

The officer gave a curt nod. "You were in law-enforcement?"

Grissom nodded. "A long time ago."

"Which is why they made an exception to the rules." The officer's tone suggested he didn't approve.

"You don't have anything to worry about – security-wise."

"That's what they all say."

The officer went on to explain about the do's and don'ts, which weren't very dissimilar to other prisons' visiting rules, but Grissom barely listened. All he could think about was Sara and the fact that she'd somehow found out where he was and come all this way just to see him. The thought was like a shot of adrenaline, instantly perking him up. He scooted up the bed as far as he could into a half-sitting, half-lying position, pulled the bedsheet up to his armpits to cover the wires on his chest and looked at the IV line in his left arm, the only outwardly visible sign of his injuries aside from the healing cut on his lip and his stitched-up right temple.

After what felt like ages, the door to the main ward opened and Sara entered, escorted by a different officer. His eyes immediately filled with tears of joy, of relief, on seeing her, a sudden rush of emotion he tried his best to swallow and keep control of. Sara's quick eyes scanned the large room and the many beds uncertainly until they found him. Her wary face lit up and, raising the hand not hooked up to the IV line in a small wave, he gave her a shaky smile.

The officer said something in her ear as they approached and, keeping her eyes fixed on her husband, she nodded her head. Blowing out a deep, tremulous breath, Grissom blinked his eyes a few times, then held out his hand to her. Glancing at the officer, Sara took his hand then moved to kiss him lightly on the mouth before she embraced him. Her touch was light and gentle, careful lest she put pressure on him, and he lifted his hand to her back, patting, stroking as he returned the hug as best he could.

He never wanted to let go. She smelled so good, felt so good in his arms. His tears fell and he closed his eyes, the wave of love and happiness that coursed through him all encompassing, and it was all he could do not to break down into sobs. All too soon, she pulled back from him and glanced at the officer again before taking a seat on the chair by his bedside and leaning forward reached for his hand. The fact that they were being closely watched – that their interaction was being recorded – didn't seem to faze her.

"Handholding is allowed," she said in a whisper, smiling, "I checked."

Grissom glanced toward the officer but he had moved further back and was standing there, already looking bored, keeping guard. "Oh, Sara. I've missed you so much," he said, choking on the last word as his emotion got the better of him. Turning away, he willed himself to stay strong and wiped his wet eyes on his hospital gown.

"I've missed you too," Sara said in a hoarse whisper, and he turned back to look at her.

He blew out a breath and they stared at each other for a moment without speaking, just smiling through their tears and letting the emotion on their face, in their eyes express what they couldn't voice.

"How are you?" he asked at last.

She laughed. "I'm fine—happy, relieved now I've seen you. I've been so worried. You wouldn't believe the lengths Jim had to go."

"I can imagine."

She hesitated, then looked over her shoulder and quickly stroked her hand the length of his bearded cheek. "It was worth it."

"Definitely." His smile wavered. "What about work?" he went on when she kept silent.

"Ah. I already maxed out on overtime for this month." Her lips twitched with a teasing smile. "I needed a diversion."

Recognising the reference, Grissom laughed. "I'm glad I could oblige."

"You thought that I wouldn't find out?" she then asked lightly.

His smile fading, Grissom shrugged his shoulder. "I thought you might. Hope you wouldn't. I didn't want you to worry."

"I worry anyway." Her smile trembled, and she lifted her shoulder in a small shrug.

"I'm sorry I couldn't let you know."

"I know." She gave her head a shake, as though getting rid of some dark thoughts. "They said they operated on you to fix your spleen?" And when he acquiesced with a nod, "What happened?"

Grissom sighed. Unsure how much she knew he decided to play down the events, kept his tone light and breezy and his account deliberately vague so as not to add to her worry. "I did some guy a favour and it backfired on me. Rules are different on the inside. It's par for the course."

Her face was full of concern now. "Par for the course, huh?"

Grissom's shoulder lifted again. "I don't think he meant to do me as much damage as he did."

Sara sighed. "Who was it?" she asked, her stare probing.

"Some guy I got on the wrong side of."

"And that's all I'm going to get, is it? Some guy you did a favour for and got on the wrong side of?"

Again Grissom lifted his shoulder. "It's better this way, Sara, honestly. The least you know, the better it is."

Sara sighed. "Manuel said that—"

Grissom registered a look of surprise. "You spoke to Manuel?"

"Yes, well, no. He wrote to me. That's how I found out you got hurt."

"Oh," Grissom said, taken aback by the news, "I assumed you were here because the prison had notified you, that maybe Dr Walker had gotten a message to you?"

"Dr Walker? No." Sara shook her head. "Nope, nothing. All I got is Manuel's letter, Gil. I brought it with me for you to read. It's in my purse but apparently it's considered contraband."

Grissom gave a wry smile. "I couldn't read it anyway. I don't have my glasses here."

Sara winced. "About that. Manuel wrote that they got broken in the fight."

"What fight?" Grissom exclaimed in a scoff. "It wasn't a fight."

Sara frowned. "What was it then?"

Once again debating how honest to be with her, Grissom took in and let out a long breath. "A one-sided punch-up? I didn't…defend myself, Sara." He shrugged. "He was just…settling a score." He looked up and met her gaze dead on. "As I said, I don't think he meant to put me in here. If he gets caught—"

" _When_ he gets caught, Gil," she said with conviction. "Manuel says that everyone knows who he is. He also said you got some evidence."

Grissom looked surprised. "Did he?"

Sara nodded. "Well?" she queried when he didn't elaborate, "did you get evidence?"

Grissom shrugged. "I scraped my nails to his foot." He sighed. "I think that whatever evidence I got got compromised when they moved me. I mean Riley was aware, but…well, I'm not holding my breath."

"Riley?"

"One of the COs in my unit. He's a good guy. But I'm not sure they'll even bother to test it." He glanced up toward the nearest CCTV camera ball. "What happens behind the wall tends to stay behind the wall."

Sara smiled at the reference. "I'll speak to your attorney. Get him on the case, see what he can find out."

Grissom nodded, but he wasn't sure it was worth it. It was easy for the TDC to claim the sample had been compromised somehow, keep a lid on what had happened especially as no one had been seriously injured.

Sara took in a long breath she let out slowly. It was obvious something was on her mind she was yet to broach with him.

"What is it, Sara?" he asked softly, concerned.

Averting her gaze, she pinched her lips. "I don't want you to go back there, Gil. I mean when you're well enough to."

"It's not up to me, Sara."

"Maybe they can move you somewhere else," she said hopefully.

"I don't think so."

"I'm scared, Gil. I don't want anything else to happen to you. You could have been killed."

Grissom gave her hand a squeeze. "I wasn't."

"That's twice now you get injured and I'm not aware." Tears formed in her eyes. "Twice now you could have died and I didn't know."

"Sara, sweetheart—"

"Can't you ask for a transfer?" she insisted. "Please do it for me." Despite the tears shining in her eyes, she held his gaze steadily. "I don't care where, but I don't want you going back to that place with that man."

"Sara—"

"Even if they arrest him," she went on, speaking over his words, "he'll have contacts. He'll want to get revenge—"

"Sara," he called more forcefully, stopping her in her tracks, "it's not like I have much choice in the matter. It's too early for me to ask for a transfer, you know that. When they review my custody level, I'll have to move, whether I want to or not. It's only a few more weeks." Unwilling to fall out with her and understanding her concerns, he gave her a soft smile and her hand a pat. "Let's talk about something else, alright? Let's not spoil the rest of the time we have together." Giving her hand another squeeze, he smiled widely. "What else did Manuel say?"

She gave a grudging shrug. "He kept very vague. I'm surprised the letter got to me at all actually."

"So am I."

"He said that he was in the hole until he was transferred."

"Oh dear God."

"Oh, he didn't do anything wrong," she quickly explained, and he breathed a sigh of relief. "He said they put him there for his safety. Sounds like they might have brought his transfer date forward."

A wistful smile forming, Grissom's gaze became distant as his mind took him back to the happy moment Manuel announced his custody level had been lowered and he was being moved. "He wanted to wait until he'd taken all his tests."

"Tests?"

He refocused on Sara. "He's taking his GED in English and Maths. I hope what happened to me won't change that."

"I don't think it will." She smiled softly. "He said to tell you he was already making the right choices."

Grissom's smile widened. "Good for him."

Sara gave a hesitant nod. "Sounds like the two of you have gotten quite close."

Grissom's smile saddened a little. He thought back to what Dr Walker had said to him during their last conversation about turning a negative experience into a positive one. He thought about the good work he was doing inside to help other inmates, about how he'd taken Manuel under his wing. Maybe meeting Manuel and hopefully steering him onto the right path was part of his redemption.

"He wants to keep in touch, you know, after the transfer, and he asked that…I write to him with news. I'd like to," she went on when Grissom kept silent, dipping her head to catch his eye. "Is that okay?"

Refocusing, Grissom nodded his head. "He's a good kid."

"He said that he was sorry for not being there when it happened," she continued in a quiet, introspective voice.

"It would have happened anyway," he said, refocusing suddenly. "It was just a matter of time. There's nothing anyone could have done. Least of all you."

Letting out a long, resigned sigh, she nodded her head.

"I'm fine now," he went on cheerily, "so let's concentrate on that, alright?"

"Alright," Sara said, a grudging smile twitching at her lips. "I tell you what. Next time I write to you I'll copy up Manuel's letter so you can read it for yourself."

Grissom smiled wryly. "They'll reject the mail."

"Then I'll have to be clever. Use a code of sorts. I'm good with codes." When Grissom's smile widened, hers did too. "They won't notice."

"You forget that I don't have any glasses anymore."

"I'll just have to write big." She shrugged. "I brought your spare pair just in case."

"They won't allow it."

"Maybe not, but I left the glasses with them anyway. And because I was anticipating a rejection I also left them your prescription – the last one you had done when you were in Vegas."

Her solicitude touched him. "Thank you. That'll speed things up for sure. That said I was kind of looking forward to wearing the Buddy Holly style glasses we can buy from commissary."

Sara laughed, then glanced at her watch. "My thirty minutes are almost up," she said, looking back up despondently.

Glancing at the officer looking at his feet as he stood sentry nearby, Grissom reached up his hand, touching his fingertips to Sara's face tenderly. "The officer said I had two visitors. Jim came too?"

A soft smile forming on her lips, she gave her head a gentle shake. "No. Jim didn't come. He would have liked to, but two was the maximum they'd allow." Her smile faded and she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a telltale sign that she was nervous. He frowned. "Your mother's here, Gil," she went on hesitantly. " _She_ came with me. She's waiting outside. They wouldn't let us come in together."

Grissom's expression became pained, his eyes haunted suddenly as he looked around the room almost fearfully, certainly shamefully. At least they'd taken off the handcuff.

"I couldn't keep her in the dark, Gil," Sara defended in a vehement whisper. "I couldn't. Not about you being in the hospital. Not after everything that's happened."

Turning toward her, he reached for her hand. "It's okay. You're right. You did the right thing. It's time, I guess."

Sara gave him an encouraging smile. "She's going to be fine, Gil."

He scoffed. "I'm not sure _I_ will."

She patted his hand lovingly. "You will. Just give her a hug and make peace."

His lips pinching, Grissom gave a nod of the head. A second CO came into the room, notifying his colleague that the visit was over, and Sara made to stand. "Thank you," he said, his voice gruff, his eyes filling at the prospect of once again being apart, "For coming…and bringing Mom too. For looking after her."

"Don't mention it," she mouthed, emotion she'd kept on top of so far suddenly spilling. "We've decided to make a little trip of it, you know? Just a couple of days. I'll tell you all about it." The officer moved forward, and turning toward him Sara nodded. "Write please. As soon as you get back."

"I will."

"Even if it's in big letters."

A smile spread across his face, dissipating his sadness. "I love you."

"I love you too." Gently, he pulled at her hand, tugging her forward, and closing his eyes once again wrapped his free arm around her. When she pulled back, the CO was standing right behind her, ready to escort her out.

"Say thanks to Jim from me," he said, when reluctantly she turned to go. "Tell him I'll buy him a beer when I get out."

His words seemed to give her pause, and she turned back to look at him. She looked surprised, but happy, and he could well imagine it was because it was the first time he'd spoken about life after prison. Wiping at her eyes, she gave a nod, then with one last trembling smile turned her back on him and left the room.

Grissom only had enough time to use the bedsheet to wipe at his face and eyes before the door opened again. He watched warily his mother come in, uncertainly preceding the CO into the room. The tentative smile on her face wavered as soon as she locked eyes with him. Grissom raised his right hand in a shy hello when she stood rooted by the door until the officer motioned for her to go forward and to the chair at his bedside.

Betty's trembling smile widened as she stepped closer. "Son," she signed.

Grissom's eyes filled again. "I'm sorry," he signed, holding her gaze meaningfully as he tried to impart all the things he was sorry for, and then motioned one-handed for her to come closer so he could give her a hug. He couldn't help noticing how changed she looked since the last time he'd seen her, how tired and old suddenly, much older than he remembered, and he knew that he was the cause for the change. Sara had been right to bring Betty to the visit, and he was grateful she had.

Seeing his mother, being able to speak with her, albeit through slow and rusty signing, meant a lot. After exchanging a few tentative, almost awkward platitudes, they got into their stride and were able to clear the air and talk properly. There were no drama or recriminations. Betty didn't ask any questions - no doubt Sara would fill her in afterwards. She was just happy to answer his and spend all too short a moment with her son, never judging or condemning, just forgiving as she had said in her letter.

"Tell Sara to organise a visit at the prison," he signed when the officer moved forward, indicating it was time for Betty to go, "when I'm back there and on my feet. Tell her I'll put your name down on my list of approved visitors and you can both come."

The look of joy, of shock, that lit up his mother's face made his feelings of guilt resurface. He'd treated her - and Sara - very badly, very unfairly, but from then on he vowed to do right by them.

For a long time, he wished he had died in the crash.

Not anymore.

Now he was looking forward to the future and a quiet life with the people he loved.


	22. Chapter 22

Betty was crying when she came out of Grissom's hospital room. Sara got up from her plastic chair, immediately closing the distance to her mother-in-law, and when she made eye contact Betty's face crumpled and her tears turned to sobs. Without thinking, Sara wrapped her arms around Grissom's mother comfortingly and let her cry. She understood all too well what Betty was feeling; that breaking down in tears was just the release of so many pent-up emotions that the older woman would have tried her hardest to keep a lid on in front of her son.

She hoped the two of them had managed to talk, or at least share some meaningful interaction and clear the air in ways that weren't possible through writing. A forgiving look and a heartfelt hug, the physical contact of a loving embrace would have meant a lot more to Grissom and his mother than words or signs ever could. When Betty's crying subsided, Sara pulled back and offered her a small smile, feeling emotional herself.

"You okay?" she signed tentatively, for want of something better.

Betty managed a smile and a nod of the head before signing a quick, sheepish 'thanks' and looking for her purse, which she'd left with the officer manning the front desk. Pre-empting what Betty was after, Sara felt her pants pocket and found a clean tissue she handed over to her mother-in-law.

"Didn't it go well with Gil?" Sara went on hesitantly after Betty had wiped at her cheeks and eyes.

A little more composed, Betty gave a vehement nod. "Oh yes, it did. It's just…" She dropped her hands powerlessly before making her fingers in claws and signing, "hard." Then smiling, she circled flat hands in front of her a couple of times in a forward and downward motion, before pointing at her wet eyes, explaining the mix of emotions she was feeling; grief and sadness at seeing Grissom hurt in the hospital bed, but also relief and joy at just seeing him, after almost two years of absence.

Sara knew exactly how Betty felt, her own pain and heartbreak after visiting Grissom in prison still fresh in her mind. "Me too," she signed and patted her hand to Betty's arm affectionately.

Betty gave a thoughtful nod. "He looked good, though, don't you think?"

Sara's smile widened. "He did." Despite his injuries, Grissom had had a glint in his eyes that hadn't been present the last time they'd seen each other and said so much about his current state of mind. Yes, physically he was a wreck but mentally, emotionally, he'd looked stronger, and it would seem that Betty had noticed it too. He'd been happy to see her, his mother too, and Sara hoped that his spirits would remain lifted for a while.

"He's changed so much," Betty went on, "physically, I mean. Older."

"Us too," Sara signed. "We have changed too in that time." And then struggling to find the right signs, "But we're still the same inside. He is too."

Betty nodded, then took in a deep, calming breath. She looked about to say more when the officer walked over to them, indicating it was time for them to leave. The two women retrieved their purses and jackets and signed more paperwork. Sara asked again about Grissom's glasses and prescription but the officer was non-committal, only reiterating impatiently that it wasn't up to him but that he would pass the request on. Resigned, Sara just nodded her head, dropping the issue.

The air-conditioned hospital had sheltered them from the sweltering heat outside. Sara rummaged in her purse for her sunglasses and the key to her rental car, and checked her cell phone. She had one missed call and voicemail from Brass. She didn't listen to the message; she could well imagine what he wanted to know. She'd call to give him an update and put his mind at rest as soon as they were back at the hotel. Looking up, she met Betty's probing stare.

"Everything okay?" quick hands asked.

"Just a call from Captain Brass."

Betty nodded her understanding. "I'd like to meet him when we get back to Vegas. Thank him properly, in person for what he did."

"He'd like that," Sara signed.

"Maybe I could cook dinner for the three of us one evening?"

Sara's smile broadened. "Oh, he'd definitely like that even more."

Betty seemed pleased, and after one wistful glance at the hospital lobby, Sara indicated left and they set off down the path toward the parking lot. The sun beat down on them mercilessly at this time of day, intense heat reflected off the tarmac, and they walked fast, eager to take cover in the car. Sara pressed the key fob to unlock the Toyota and they got in. Sara started the engine without a moment's pause, activating the A/C, grateful when the cool blast began to replace the stifling heat inside, before removing and rolling the windshield sunshade and tossing it on the back seat.

The drive from the hospital to their hotel on the island sea front took about twenty minutes. Betty was collected, but quiet and subdued, more so than usual, probably reflecting over her time with her son. Sara was too. She was looking for a parking spot when startling suddenly Betty turned toward her and signed something Sara could only catch a glimpse of. Sara parked the car and, keeping the engine on, turned toward Betty expectantly. The older woman had a wide, excited smile on her face, and instinctively Sara smiled too.

"I can't believe I forgot to tell you," Betty signed quickly, enthusiastically. "Gil says he wants us to visit him at the prison!"

Sara frowned while she put all the signs together before lifting incredulous eyes to Betty's face.

Betty nodded eagerly. "He did. He said he'd put my name on the list and that we can go together when he's back there and better."

Sara's smile grew so wide that her cheeks hurt. Being allowed regular visitation meant so much to her that her eyes filled with tears. She'd been so worried that she'd made a mistake asking Betty to come to see her son without his knowledge. It could have backfired so badly, but it hadn't, and she now knew she'd done the right thing, as regards Betty but Grissom too. Failing to find the signs to express her delight, Sara leaned forward and gave Betty an awkward but warm hug.

Once indoors Betty made her excuses, claiming she was tired and in need of a nap, and they agreed to meet up at six. They'd checked into the hotel late afternoon the previous day after a direct and straightforward flight to Houston International airport. Sara had pre-booked a rental car and after she'd programmed the route on the GPS they'd headed in a south-easterly direction out of Houston toward Galveston Island, a little over fifty miles away, where the TDCJ hospital was located within the University of Texas Medical Branch.

Their hotel, the Four Point by Sheraton, had been chosen for both its affordable comfort and close proximity to the hospital. After a quiet meal at the hotel restaurant, they'd retired to their rooms for an early night. Sara hadn't had a shift off in over a week, and exhausted she'd slept soundly until the morning. She was nervous about seeing Grissom again, but being so nearby had soothed her. She'd told him that she and Betty had decided to make a small trip out of the visit and she was glad they had.

Back in her room, Sara had a long, refreshing shower. She hoped they could take in a walk along the sea front later that evening when the heat was more manageable and find a restaurant with a sea view, and maybe even a visit to Moody Gardens, an educational tourist destination famous for its conservation and wildlife, the next day. She wished Grissom could share in the visit with them, then grew sad at the thought. Her eyes brimming with tears, she brushed furiously through her tangled hair and put a pair of cut-off jeans and tank top on.

Calmer, she grabbed her cell, made herself comfortable on the bed and called Brass. The police captain picked up on the third ring.

"I'm not getting you out of bed, am I?" she asked by way of greeting, laughter in her voice.

After a moment's pause, Brass laughed. "You know that, just like the city we live in, I never sleep."

Sara heard voices and a door shut, and she knew Brass was in his office at work.

"How are you?" he went on, refocusing her.

"I'm good, relieved. Happy." She smiled on recalling she'd told Grissom the exact same thing.

"You sound it. The visit went well then."

"It did. The officers were a little offhand, but we got our half-an-hour each."

"Good. And how was Gil?"

"I thought he'd be down, you know? But no. Despite the fact that he took a nasty beating, he was positive and upbeat, happy to see us." The memory brought tears to her eyes. "Oh Jim, it was so different from the last time I saw him."

"He's healing, Sara," Brass replied confidently.

"I think so too." She chuckled. "He even mentioned getting you a beer to say thanks when he comes out."

"A beer, huh? I look forward to it." He paused and sighed. "And the guy that injured him? Did he say who he was?"

Getting off the bed, Sara moved to the window and looked out. "No. He just said it was some guy with a score to settle. He wouldn't give me any details, or even his name."

"He probably didn't want you to look the guy up, read his rap sheet and worry yourself to death."

Sara scoffed, but it was exactly what she would have done. "Sounds like he took a moral stand, that's for sure."

Brass chuckled quietly. "He didn't fight back, did he?"

"Nope."

"But he's fine now, right? They're looking after him?"

"It looks like it." Turning away from the window, she began pacing the area in front of the bed. "I wasn't able to talk to his doctors, but Gil said they were. His wounds are healing and the op was a success. According to the BOP he'll make a full recovery."

"That's great, Sara. That's great news."

Hearing the relief in Brass's voice, she felt herself well up. "Yeah."

"And he was alright with his mother coming?"

With a sigh, Sara moved back to the bed, resuming her original position with her back against the headboard. "I think so. I mean, they wouldn't let us see him together. So I saw him first, and then Betty went in. She said it went well. I hope Gil feels the same way."

"I'm sure he does. He needed to see her as much as she did. He'll work through his feelings, but that was something that needed to happen. Sure, it would have been hard to handle at the time, but in the long run it's for the best."

Sara nodded, but remained silent. She knew bringing Betty to see her son had been the right thing to do, but she wished she could have given Grissom a little forewarning so he could have prepared himself better, maybe practised his sign language. She'd wanted to tell him as soon as she'd been allowed in his hospital room, but fearing spoiling what little time they had together with an argument she hadn't. He'd seemed fine with it, though, resigned, but fine.

"Sara?" Brass prompted when silence stretched on the line. "You still there?"

Sara refocused with a start. "Sorry, yeah. You're right. It's for the best." She let out a long breath. "I—I asked him to ask for a transfer, you know, out of that hellhole, like we talked about, but he said he couldn't. That he needed to wait until they reviewed his custody level. But what if they haven't arrested the guy, what if he's still out there waiting for Gil to return so he can finish the job?"

Brass had a moment's pause. "What about the evidence his cellmate talked about in the letter?"

"Gil said he scraped his nails to the guy's foot. He's not even sure himself he did enough. I'm going to call his attorney and get him on the case. See if he can find out what lab they're using."

"Yeah. And get him to ask how long it's likely to take. Cases like these are never top of the pile. And if they messed up, Sara, in any way at all, well then, it'll play in Gil's favour."

Sara hadn't considered that angle. "Maybe," she mused.

"There's no maybe about it," Brass insisted, his voice rising. "We'll make damn sure it does."

There was a pause and, hearing voices in the background, she kept quiet.

"Listen Sara," Brass said, coming back on the line. "I'm sorry but I got to go. I'll call back later, alright?"

"Okay."

"When are you headed back?"

"Day after tomorrow. Flight's in the morning."

"I'll come pick you and Betty up from the airport."

"There's no need. I got my car."

"Oh. Okay."

"Betty said she'd like to have you round for dinner one night," she went on quickly before she forgot, "to say thank you for what you did."

"As long as you're there." Brass gave an uneasy chuckle. "I don't know how you manage to talk to her at all."

Sara laughed. "Yeah well. I wish I'd made more of an effort in the past."

"You did all right."

Sara paused, sighed. "I'm grateful too, Jim. For everything you did. Without you, they'd never have let us see him."

"Nah. Don't mention it. I'm just glad it went well, that's all."

After hurried goodbyes, Sara hung up and then scrolled through her contacts for Grissom's attorney's number she was sure she'd saved when she'd called him before visiting Grissom the first time. She put a call through to his office and left a message explaining the situation and asking that he called her back as soon as possible. Afterwards, she got up from the bed again, turned the television on, but finding nothing of interest moved back to the window.

When at six pm she came down to the lobby, Betty was waiting by the front desk. Dressed in a skirt and matching short-sleeve blouse, she was turned toward a tourist display, picking up brochures, looking at them and then putting them back on. Walking over to her, Sara gently tapped her on the shoulder. Betty turned with a start, then smiled warmly.

"Ready?" Sara signed, returning the smile.

The older woman nodded her head brightly and offered her elbow to Sara in a silent but affable, "You lead the way."

They got out of the hotel and crossed the road, then took a left and began a slow wander down the boardwalk along the sea front toward the north end of the island, Sara happy to adjust her pace to that of Betty. The maritime breeze blew stronger down, whipping Sara's hair about her face, but brought with it cooler, more manageable temperatures. The walk was quiet and peaceful, both women content to enjoy their surroundings, only interrupting their companionable silence with a pointed finger at something of noticeable interest or when stopping to read the menus of the many restaurants dotted along the promenade.

By mutual accord, they chose a quaint but welcoming restaurant and after the waiter had shown them to a beachside, shaded table ordered some drinks. When Sara opened her menu, her eyes were immediately drawn the fish and seafood section, and she smiled on noticing they served calamari. Her thoughts drifted to Grissom then, thinking that he would undoubtedly choose the dish, and she felt a pang of sadness and guilt that she had ready access to all this food, to such beautiful surroundings, when he didn't.

Before the tears that had formed could spill, she refocused on the menu, deciding not to have the calamari and settling instead for the king prawn, salmon and leek risotto. Grateful her sunglasses hid her growing emotion, she then looked over toward the beach and watched a large family play a game of softball. Betty tapped her on the hand and she turned back toward her companion sharply.

"Everything okay?" Betty signed, her face showing concern.

Sara flashed a smile. "Sure," she signed, adding when Betty stared back at her probingly, "I was just thinking about Gil." She paused, hesitating, and then opting for the truth shrugged a sad shoulder. "I wish he could be here with us now."

Betty nodded enthusiastically before her face registered a look of sadness. "I feel guilty too," she said, and realising that Betty had read her like an open book Sara flicked her gaze away uncomfortably, "But life goes on. And besides, Gil would want us to enjoy ourselves and be happy. In fact, he told me as much." She looked about to say more but instead she just picked up her menu, opened it and pointed at one the dishes. "I think I'll have the calamari," she then signed, a cheeky smile pulling at her lips as looking up at Sara she finger spelt the dish. "You?"

Sara smiled widely. "Me too."

The drinks came, and they ordered their food. Sara took a small sip of her chilled rosé wine, then angled her face toward the setting sun and briefly closed her eyes. Despite the events of the day and her sadness over Grissom, she felt good and relaxed, this short vacation trip just what she needed after all the stress of the previous weeks.

"He looked good, though," Betty signed when reopening her eyes she looked over at her with a smile. "Considering all he's been through."

Sara's smile grew; it was the second time Betty made the remark and Sara guessed that the older woman was still trying to come to terms with it all. "Yes, he did."

"A lot better than I imagined."

Sara nodded her head, then picked up her glass and took a slow sip of it. Betty followed suit. "He's keeping fit," she signed after putting her glass down, "At the prison." Closing her fist, she folded up her right arm and pointed at her bicep, and giggling Betty nodded that she understood.

"Sara," Betty signed hesitantly, sobering as she held her daughter-in-law's gaze intently, "I wanted to thank you. For bringing me here and allowing me to see Gil."

Sara raised her hands to interrupt but Betty lifted a steadying hand.

"It means a lot to me." Tears formed in Betty's eyes. "I'm old and…well, I don't know how long I've got left. For a long time, I didn't think I'd ever see Gil again."

Sara had a strong sense of foreboding. "You're not…sick, are you?" she signed fearfully.

"Oh, no," Betty laughed, waving both her hands in the negative, "Just old. Gil's lucky to have you," she went on quickly, her expression earnest and solemn now. "A lot of women wouldn't have stuck around."

Sara's smile turned wistful, Betty's comment giving her pause. If she knew the signs, she'd explain that she was the lucky one. That Grissom was the only man that understood her completely and loved her for who she was, many faults and all. That they were linked in some complicated way, bound by a connection she'd struggle to define, the word soulmate not enough somehow. She'd tell her that even when they were apart – through choice or not as it was the case for Sara for a year and a half when Grissom had kept his whereabouts secret – they were still irremediably connected.

"I love him," she simply signed, and Betty's smile and slow nod told her that that one overused phrase indeed said it all.

"I'm sorry I didn't give you a fair chance," Betty went on.

Sara frowned, uncertain what Betty meant.

"When you and Gil got married. Before that even. I…" She dropped her hands hesitantly, only to lift them again and holding Sara's gaze levelly, "I couldn't see past the age difference. How much younger than him you were. I didn't think you could possibly love him, not for him."

Sara's frown deepened as Betty's signs finally registered. She knew she should feel offended by Betty's candour, but she wasn't. She'd known all that all along and after all this time and what they were going through right now she found that it didn't matter anymore. Before Sara could compose an answer, Betty lifted her hands again.

"But I was wrong," she signed, deliberately slowly, "and I'm glad he's got you in his life. Without you, I don't think he'd be doing as well as he is right now."

Sara's eyes welled with tears. Lifting her hand to her chin, she mustered a small, watery smile and thanked Betty. Betty's words of acceptance, albeit belated, meant more to her than even she had realised. She slid her hand to the middle of the table and smiling Betty reached for it, giving it a strong squeeze.

The two-day trip on Galveston Island ended well and became a defining moment in hers and Betty's relationship. Grissom's attorney got back to her late the next day with news from the TDC. He'd been told that evidence had indeed been recovered from Grissom and sent to the Texas Department of Criminal Justice lab in Houston – the DNA results of which were still pending – and that Grissom still needed to give a statement, which would be taken when he was back in Beaumont. Would Grissom agree to give up the name of his attacker, she wondered? Or would he keep quiet and let the evidence speak for itself – or not as the case could be?

Days passed without news but Sara kept in good spirits. Work kept her busy, as well as writing to Grissom. Betty's thank-you dinner had been arranged for the following Sunday, and Sara was strangely looking forward to it. And finally a long-awaited letter from Beaumont prison came. Impatient for news, Sara opened the envelope at the mailbox, and read Grissom's letter there and then, the relief and joy that his words brought so overwhelming that she cried.

 _My darling Sara,_

 _By the time you get this letter, I will be back in general population. But for now, I am in the medical facility in Beaumont where if everything goes to plan I will stay for two days for monitoring._

 _As you can see, I am writing in my usual script, which means that the warden agreed to let me have the glasses you brought. Thank you for your forethought in this respect, as it also means that I can kill the boredom of the long days cooped up in here with books. In many ways, I miss my old cell and Manuel's company too._

 _Physically, I am doing a lot better. My ribs and stomach still feel a little tender to the touch, but the wounds are healing well and I am moving and walking about normally – well, when I'm allowed to. Mentally, I am feeling a lot better too. Seeing you, seeing my mother, raised my spirits in ways you cannot imagine._

 _Thank you again for bringing my mother to see me, for allowing us the opportunity to talk and, well, for allowing me to start making amends with her. I feel better for it, much lighter. I understand now that part of the guilt I am feeling is because of the wrongs I did you both. Not telling you about the crash and killing Mrs Martinez, not telling you about the trial and consequent conviction, was a mistake I deeply regret._

 _I thought about what you said, about asking for a transfer, and I've decided that I will. I'll speak to Dr Walker about it at the first opportunity and see what he advises. Please, don't get your hopes up or tell Mom yet. You know how the system works. Asking for a transfer, even getting one, doesn't necessarily mean an immediate move, or even a move to a facility closer to home. We'll just have to wait and see, which I guess is easier said than done, in your case anyway._

 _I hope you and Mom had a nice trip. She said you were becoming quite the signer. How did you enjoy Moody Gardens? Did you go to see the Rain Forest Pyramid? Did it bring back lots of happy memories? I hope you shared them with her. She would have loved that. Maybe when I come out, we can go back._

 _The nurse has just come in so I'd better finish. He's a 'he', before you ask. I'll write again tomorrow and email as soon as I can._

 _All my love always,_

 _Gil._

Laughing, she looked up from the letter and around her front yard and street dazedly before finally taking stock of where she stood.

Quickly, she dried her eyes and made her way indoors.

And then it came to her and her happy smile disappeared.

If Grissom was back in general population, why hadn't he emailed her? And was the guy who'd attacked him still a threat?


	23. Chapter 23

This first weekend in his new housing unit felt particularly long and dreary. With no mail to look forward to, none of his old haunts to retreat to and no Manuel to spend time with, Grissom felt even more of a prisoner than he had ever before. It reminded him of when he'd been moved from the state jail to the Oklahoma City Transit Centre after his conviction before he was found a place in FCI Beaumont med. Those first six weeks had been hell, and he didn't know how he'd survived them. He'd been depressed and withdrawn then, barely responsive, and he could feel some of that black mood returning.

Not wanting to come across Armstrong, he didn't go to the recreation yard, but staying in his cell with his new cellmate wasn't an option he relished either. Nathaniel Fairfax was no Manuel Ortega, and Grissom couldn't see a time when the two would share more than a few monosyllabic words. Weekdays weren't so bad as he had the cell to himself most of the morning. Fairfax worked in the laundry room whereas he'd lost his job in the yard – the attack and subsequent injuries meant that his work had been reassigned to another inmate.

His library work and teaching kept him busy and out of the cell the rest of the time. He missed Manuel a great deal, and the undemanding, often entertaining easy friendship they'd built. Because friends they'd become, he realised now, despite the odds, and he'd come to depend on Manuel a great deal more than he'd appreciated. He hoped the younger man would keep in touch through Sara. He wondered where he was now, whether he fared better than Grissom did.

A loud crash jarred him back to the present. Looking up sharply from his plastic tray, he scanned his eyes around the busy chow hall, searching for the source of the fracas, locating it near the checkout counter, well away from him. He could well imagine an elbow in the wrong place and the tray toppling to the ground. The two men involved were shouting and shoving, squaring up to one another while other inmates egged them on. Two officers rushed over, and the inmates involved quickly calmed down. Another inmate with a mop appeared, swiftly cleaning up the mess, and Grissom dully returned to his dinner.

His thoughts drifted to Sara, bringing about a small, wistful smile as he chewed. He wished he'd been able to send her an email and put her mind at rest. The CorrLinks server had been down since before he'd left the medical facility and he hadn't been able to, but he'd left a voice message on their home answerphone as soon as he'd been able to. He'd had a stack of letters from her to catch up on when he'd got back though – as well as a couple from his mother – but he was still to get a reply to the ones he'd sent this week.

He kept Sara's letters for night time now more than ever. They were his most treasured possession, reading them always gave him such a boost. He lived his days for the nights when he could be with her. His heart became heavy all of a sudden, and he gave his head a shake, trying to rid himself of this wretched melancholy, and shovelled the last of his half-cup of canned fruit down his throat. He'd told Sara he would ask for a transfer, and first opportunity he got he would.

For fifteen months, he'd thought he belonged there, that being behind bars was a worthwhile punishment for the crime he'd committed, not anymore. Now he longed to be a free man, out in the outside world, with his friends and family. With Sara. He'd put in a request to see Dr Walker, his correctional officer, and hopefully the appointment would come through soon. Fingers crossed it went as planned too.

His meagre dinner finished, Grissom stood up and carried his food tray over to the cart before making his way out. As he did so, he caught sight of Armstrong waiting in the food line, a good head taller than the people around him. Being in different housing units meant for different meal times, which was a relief. There would be no more dropping in to the cell unannounced either. Before he could look away, Armstrong turned around and locked gazes with him across the hall. Feeling himself flush, Grissom made himself hold his stare. He wouldn't back down or show fear.

Armstrong gave a single nod of the head – in acknowledgement rather than threateningly – and keeping his inner turmoil well concealed Grissom returned the nod sombrely. Still they stared at each other. The food line moved forward. The inmate behind Armstrong spoke, and Armstrong turned away with a start before moving forward. Grissom quietly turned on his heels, happy with his performance. Visibly, the evidence against Armstrong had either not been processed or come to nothing, which in the circumstance wasn't all that surprising.

Wearily, he walked over to his new housing unit and climbed the three flights to the corridor that held the new cell he'd been inhabiting for a little over a week now. He could hear music coming from the cell as he approached, some angry heavy metal that Greg might have listened to once upon a time, and his heart sank. It wasn't so loud that officers might intervene, but loud enough to bother him. They were four guys in the cell when he walked in. His cellmate, Fairfax, stood leaning against the sink, two men sat on the stools at the table and the fourth on the edge of the top bunk.

 _His_ bunk.

Grissom tried to curb his rising temper, made himself keep calm and not react. Despite the playing cards scattered on the table, the four men weren't playing. They were all turned toward each other, deep in conversation. The music covered their words and he couldn't hear what was being said, but it was clear they were plotting something. Feeling his presence, they stopped talking abruptly and turned dark looks toward him.

Pausing, Grissom looked directly, pointedly, at the guy sitting on his cot, a guy they called Psycho who eventually hopped off the bunk. Grissom moved to his locker and slowly, covertly, did the code on the padlock before opening his locker and taking out his GED books and the earplugs Sara had included in her care package. Then he carefully secured his locker again. He didn't trust Fairfax, or his cronies. He wasn't worried about theft, more that some form of contraband would be stashed there without his knowledge if they knew the code.

Grissom didn't like their superior attitudes and demeanour, couldn't stand what they stood for. He didn't like their tattoos either, couldn't stand the hatred and violence they symbolised. Manuel had been heavily tattooed too, but his had been representations of Christian icons and symbols, not the Nazi, right-wing markings of white supremacists. He thought about taking his books and retreating somewhere a little quieter, one of the classrooms maybe, but decided not to.

This was his cell too, and he wouldn't be driven out, not like the previous inmate had. Fairfax didn't turn the music down, he just gathered the cards and dealt a new round. Wary of turning his back on them, he climbed onto his bunk, wincing at the tug in his stomach the movement caused. He didn't like being at the top – no one did, you had to constantly climb up and down and it hurt his side; it was hotter at the top too, and smellier – but as the newcomer in the cell he'd had no choice.

Asking to swap would have come at a considerable price, a price he wasn't prepared to pay. He didn't want to owe anyone anything. Ignoring his audience but keeping them in sight, he took his glasses out of his pocket, made himself as comfortable as he could on the small cot with his back against the wall, and after putting his earplugs in opened his book. He became so immersed in his reading that he didn't notice the music being turned off, or the cell emptying until it was just Fairfax and him left.

"Grissom!" Fairfax called.

Grissom looked up with a start and found Fairfax standing in front of him, watching him with narrowed eyes. He had a feeling Fairfax had been trying to get his attention for some time. He put his books down and sitting up straighter against the wall removed his earplugs. Maybe there was an advantage to being at the top, he thought. He could kick if he needed to. He didn't speak, just stared at Fairfax questioningly.

"I heard—" Fairfax raised his shoulder. "I heard you were a jailhouse lawyer."

Grissom's heart sank. "Well, you heard wrong," he replied gruffly.

Fairfax looked surprised. "Really, 'cos what I heard is that you do people favours with their correspondence."

With a sigh, Grissom removed his glasses. "Favours get you hurt."

Fairfax lowered his eyes to Grissom's chest and abdomen and nodded his head that he understood. What had happened to Grissom was no secret and had quickly done the rounds, besides which cells were small, and with privacy practically non-existent both men had seen the other change and wash and worse. Grissom's bruising had subsided quite a bit now, but it was still noticeable, and a small dressing he changed every day still covered the surgical wound.

"At a price," Fairfax went on, undeterred.

"Everything comes at a price in here."

"Name it."

Grissom took in a long breath he let out slowly. "I told you. I don't do any favours anymore."

"It's my wife, you see?" Fairfax went on quietly, when returning to his reading Grissom put his glasses back on. "She wants a divorce."

Grissom flicked his gaze up. "Right."

Fairfax sighed, then eased a look toward the open cell door. "Could you…huh…read over the paperwork for me, make sure it's all legit, you know, so I know what I'm signing?"

Grissom was losing his patience. "I told you I don't—"

Looking embarrassed, Fairfax scratched at the back of his head, dropped his voice to a barely audible whisper. "I don't read so well, you see. All those big words, it's gibberish to me."

Grissom sighed. "As I said, I'm no lawyer."

"Yeah, but you could take a look, right?"

Grissom didn't immediately respond. He had a choice – either do Fairfax the favour or dig his heels in. Against his better judgement, he did the only thing he could in order to survive. He still didn't like the guy, but if they were going to live together then it was better to have him on his side. "If I do it," he finally said, "If I take a look at the papers – and that's all I'd be doing, take a look at them – it's a one-off and you don't tell anyone."

"Sure," Fairfax replied, a little too flippantly for Grissom's liking.

"I mean it," he insisted. "There won't be any more favours."

"Sure." Fairfax fixed Grissom with a questioning look; he wanted to know how much it would cost him.

Grissom sighed. "No more loud music when I'm around," he finally said.

"You got it," he readily said, clearly thinking it a small price to pay.

"And I get the bottom bunk."

Dropping his gaze to the bunk in question, Fairfax had a moment's pause. Then he smiled. "Alright."

The next day after breakfast, while most inmates headed to their work assignments, Grissom took a walk, alone, on the dirt jogging trail that circled the small sports field. Without taking into account his transfer by road from Galveston Hospital, he hadn't seen proper daylight, felt real sunlight on his face, on his skin, since the day of the attack. He did ten laps, and surprisingly felt refreshed afterwards. He knew the science behind his feeling energised after exercise, of course, but he would never have thought that walking in circles would do the trick.

On the way back to his cell to take a shower, he stopped by the housing unit notice board and smiled. He'd been scheduled to see Dr Walker the following Thursday at 11 am. Another notice a little to the left caught his eye, causing his smile to widen. The CorrLinks email service was back and running as of that morning. He checked his watch, 9.30 am, and forgoing his shower, rushed over to the computer room. There was no queue – word hadn't seemingly spread yet – and he was able to log on to a computer straightaway.

The first thing he did after he signed in to his account was to check the last email Sara had sent him, dated from before the attack. A letter and a number – her next chess move – followed by a kiss. Frowning, he tried to remember where they were at with the game, tried to recall the board layout in his head, but it was fuzzy. Frustrated with himself, he clicked off the message and started a new one.

 _Sara_ , he typed, _as you can see as from right now the email server is back up and running. I am doing well, and hope you are too. In fact, I've just walked ten laps around the field and feel a lot better for it. And no, I'm not overdoing it._

 _I'm settling in to my new house, but missing my work outdoors, even though it means for free time when everyone else is busy. Hence the trip to the rec yard just now. It is nice, I guess, having the place to myself – well, almost to myself._

 _I miss Manuel. I think about him a lot. Have you gotten news from him yet? I hope he's not stuck in some distribution centre somewhere waiting for a place at his new facility._

 _I'm still not liking my new cellie, but there's not much I can do about that. I have managed to get him to turn the music down though, or at least use his earphones. I got the bottom bunk too. I guess it must all seem very trivial to you._

 _I'll email my next chess move soon. Don't think I've given up. I just need to gather my thoughts a little._

 _I'll write again soon._

 _Love always,_

 _Gil._

After clicking on send, Grissom scrolled to the first message Sara ever sent with her first chess move. There was no way he would remember them all, and with a sigh he looked up from the computer screen. The officers' desk was nearby, and after a moment's hesitation he got up and asked to borrow a piece of paper and a pencil. Worried that his fifteen minutes would soon be up, he quickly returned to his computer and set about looking up and diligently noting down all the chess moves they'd made over the past eight weeks or so.

He was about to log out, when he noticed her reply had already arrived in his inbox. Emails normally didn't get delivered to the recipient that quickly, and he could only think it was on account of how little CorrLinks traffic there had to be right then. An idea popped into his head, and he smiled.

Sara _,_ he typed back without wasting time, _you home?_

 _Yes,_ came her reply a couple of minutes later. _You're online now?_

 _Yes_ , he thought, the smile growing on his lips, but a quick look at his watch told him that his time on the computer was up. Quickly, he logged off and tucking the scrap of paper with the chess moves in his pants pocket he headed to the phone room. The line was short, and he didn't have long to wait. His heart was thumping in his chest as he connected the call home but unlike before it was with excitement rather than fear.

Sara picked up almost immediately, and he wondered if she'd expected it was him. It felt good to hear the sound of her voice, the familiar cadence of her speech, her warm laughter. Despite sounding tired after her shift, she seemed upbeat and happy and hearing her chat about this and that lifted his spirits further no end. They talked for as long as he was allowed, with the promise that he'd call again the very next day at the same time – provided he had the funds, of course.

Phone calls, emails and stamps weren't cheap, and because he hadn't worked in almost three weeks he worried that he'd soon run out of money. Needing to put his mind at rest, he headed to the clerks' office and asked to check the balance of his inmate trust fund account. It was surprisingly healthy, and when it dawned on him that Sara must be topping up his account behind his back, he smiled and shook his head all at once.

The following Thursday Grissom knocked on Dr Walker's door at 11am on the dot and let himself in when invited. He'd made a mental list of all the things he wanted to ask, had prepared his arguments, and he hoped his requests would be granted. Looking genuinely pleased to see him, the counsellor stood up, then walked round his desk and opened a friendly hand toward a chair, inviting Grissom to sit down.

"Ah, Grissom, I'm happy to see you looking so well," he said jovially.

"Me too," Grissom replied, meaning the words.

"Your injuries healing well, are they?"

Grissom felt his hand to his abdomen. "I get the odd twinge every so often, but yeah, I guess so."

Dr Walker nodded his head before he opened his hand out again. "Take a seat, please."

Smiling, Grissom took a couple of steps forward and sat down on the chair across from Dr Walker who followed suit behind his desk. "So, you asked to see me?"

Grissom rubbed his hands along his thighs a few times. "I did. I—" He thought about which request to bring up first, settled on the one that mattered the most. Pausing, he took a breath. "I've got another few weeks to wait until my custody level gets reviewed."

"That's right," Dr Walker concurred pleasantly, his eyes on his computer screen before he refocused on Grissom. "The minimum requirement is eighteen months when you're serving less than three years."

Grissom nodded. "Well, the thing is…I was wondering…" Chastising himself for his hesitation, he paused and focused his mind. "I've earned some time for good conduct," he finally said, tapping his thumb, counting off his first point. "My disciplinary record is exemplary. I've complied with all the prison rules, never incurred a single reprimand during my time here. I do my assigned work – well, that's something else I need to talk to you about – and I participate in corrective programmes."

Dr Walker chuckled. "You teach them."

Grissom acquiesced with a nod. "And I was wondering—"

"You'd like me to recommend that your custody level was reviewed before the eighteen months are up," Dr Walker cut in knowingly.

"Yes," Grissom said, almost diffidently, "I would."

"A change in custody level would mean a change of facility. A camp most probably."

"I know."

Dr Walker considered Grissom with interest. "Not so long ago you were dead against it."

"My situation has changed since then," Grissom said, remaining deliberately vague. "Anyway, I was hoping to ask for a transfer closer to home. Arizona maybe, or Utah. But obviously, facilities would have to be vetoed carefully on account of my…previous line of work."

"Indeed." His eyes steadfast on Grissom, Dr Walker leaned back in his chair. "Is this about what happened with Armstrong?"

Grissom's brow rose in surprise.

"You didn't think we knew?" Walker went on.

Grissom's shoulder lifted. "I knew it was common knowledge among the inmates but well, since he's still moving about the place freely…"

"We're still waiting on the results from the DNA testing to take action. You know how long that can take."

Grissom gave a wry smile. "Yeah."

"He hasn't been a threat to you, has he?"

Grissom shook his head. "No."

"We thought the change in housing unit would help." Walker paused. "You didn't give his name up when you were questioned. Why's that?"

Grissom shrugged, pondered his reply. "The evidence will talk soon enough, and if it doesn't, as there were no witnesses, it was always going to be his word against mine. I've still got to live with the guy in the meantime. He's got a lot of…friends."

"We could have put you in protective custody."

"Solitary confinement with none of the privileges?" Grissom scoffed. "No thanks." He gave his head a shake, refocusing the conversation to the topic in hand. "Anyway, huh, about the review…"

"Sure, I'll put the paperwork through. As you said, you've done everything required of you by the BOP for the request to be granted."

"Thank you."

Dr Walker leaned forward. "But let me ask you something. This request, it's not just because of the attack, is it?"

Grissom considered his reply. "No."

Dr Walker narrowed his eyes imperceptibly, shrewdly. "Your outlook's changed, hasn't it?"

"My outlook?"

"On life. You're finally moving forward rather than looking back. You're looking forward to the future, to a life on the outside, and not…" Dr Walker paused suddenly and waved his hand in the air, groping for the right words.

"Not what?" Grissom prompted.

Dr Walker shrugged. "I was going to say 'wallow in self-pity' but I felt it would be unfair and a little harsh, considering all you've been through. And not just with Armstrong. The accident, your consequent incarceration, well, it could have happened to anyone. It could be me sitting where you are now. And I don't know how I'd be coping with it all."

Grissom averted his gaze uncomfortably.

"But as I said, leave it with me. I'll approve the request," Dr Walker went on after a beat. "There are no guarantees though, you know that."

Grissom gave a nod.

"Okay." And then when Grissom made no move to leave, "Anything else I can help you with?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact there is. I was wondering when my new work assignment would come through."

Dr Walker smiled. "Is it worth it considering you're asking for a transfer?"

"Absolutely. You know how it works; a transfer could take months. Besides, I'd rather keep busy. Actually, I wouldn't mind working weekends too."

Dr Walker frowned.

"It's my new cellie," Grissom explained. "I won't bore you with the details. Let's just say, we don't see eye to eye."

Smiling, Dr Walker made a note of the request on the computer. "I'll see what's available. Talking about cellie," he went on, looking up from his screen, "I thought you'd want to know so I looked up where Manuel got transferred to."

His face brightening up, Grissom sat up straighter in his seat. He was sure the counsellor was breaking one rule or another by telling him. "Somewhere closer to home?" he asked hopefully. "It was hard for his mother to come all the way here to visit."

Walker hesitated. "It's against policy so, hum, I'd appreciate it if you kept what I'm about to say to yourself."

"Of course," Grissom said, nodding.

"You know you're not allowed to make contact, right?"

"I know. I won't." Not directly anyway.

"He's in South Fort Forest Camp. It's a two-hundred-bed minimum security work camp not far from a place called Tillamook, in Oregon. So yes, a little closer to home, I guess."

Grissom nodded. "A work camp?" he then queried with interest.

"That's right. He's going to be planting trees and looking after forests for $3 a day for the rest of his sentence."

Grissom's face lit up and he laughed. "That's great."

Walker smiled. "I hope Manuel feels the same way."

"Oh, he will," Grissom said with certainty. "Once he's used to the peace and quiet. The manual work will do him good."

Walker's smile widened. "He wouldn't have gotten there without your help," he said, nodding.

Grissom's shoulder lifted. "He just needed a little guidance, that's all."

"Let's hope he keeps on the straight and narrow this time."

"He will," Grissom said with confidence. Feeling appeased, he pushed to his feet and as an afterthought thrust his hand out. "Thank you," he said, "for everything."

Dr Walker pushed to his feet and shook Grissom's hand. "You're welcome. Hopefully we get to chat again before you leave."

Grissom nodded, then slowly turned on his heels. "Oh, before I forget," he went on, turning back toward the counsellor. He slipped his hand in his pants pocket and removed a request form he unfolded and handed over. "Could you add my mother's name to my list of approved visitors?"

Dr Walker took the proffered sheet. "Sure," he said, looking back up at Grissom with surprise.

"She's deaf, and so uses sign language."

Dr Walker nodded his head as he read the form. "We can make sure an interpreter is on hand for when she visits."

"Okay. What if Sara, my wife, were to come with her?"

"That would work too. They can either see you together, or separately."

"Okay. I'll let them know."

He left the counsellor's office with a spring in his step and headed straight to the computer room. He wrote Sara a long email announcing all his good news, then went to the library. There he made a beeline for the large map of America on the wall, located Oregon, then Portland and Salem and then Tillamook on the coast and the large Tillamook State Forest inland from it. He wished he had internet access so he could look it all up for himself, but as it was he'd have to wait for Sara to do it and report back to him.

Three days later, he got an email from her and then one from his mother, both separately reporting that they'd booked their flights and hotel stays for the trip to visit him they would make in two weekends' time. They couldn't wait.

His face lit up.

He couldn't wait either.


	24. Chapter 24

A/N: Rating going up to 'M' unexpectedly at the start of this chapter. Thank you to Tazleia for mentioning in a review that Grissom and Sara were in need of some loving. It gave me an idea.

Read responsibly please, or just skip the first thousand words or so. That's about eleven paragraphs. :-)

* * *

Sara stepped out of the shower and reaching for a towel dried herself. Her movements were slow and sluggish after a long, hard shift that had lasted well into the early afternoon and, exhausted, she struggled to keep her eyes open. She combed through her damp hair, brushed her teeth and, after studying her deepening frown lines in the mirror for a moment too long, applied a little restorative face cream. Stifling yet another yawn, she put on a comfortable, oversized T-shirt, slipped into bed and turned the light off.

Closing her eyes, she turned onto her side and snuggled deep beneath the covers. A deep sense of wellbeing soon enveloped her, a soft dreamy smile forming on her lips as her thoughts drifted to the weekend ahead. She couldn't wait to see Grissom; just to hold him in her arms once again and have him hold her back, albeit for too brief a moment, maybe sneak in a quick kiss if the officers were looking the other way. Yes, they wrote to each other all the time, even spoke on the phone two or three times a week these days, but it wasn't the same as a little physical contact and closeness.

Sleep came quickly and with it dreams. Except they weren't dreams exactly, but rather a kaleidoscope of memories and recollections of happy times, soon creating a reality of their own in her mind. And then he was beside her. She could feel his weight behind her, his strong body pressed tightly against hers as she lay in bed. She could feel the comfort of a possessive arm draped over her, his warmth breaths on the back of her neck, his lips brushing the tender skin there. Her body stirred, rekindled, awakened, and as she slept she smiled and repressed a shiver all at once and let out a long, satisfied breath, almost a moan, that came from deep within.

His lips were soft and gentle, tentative, and needing more than what he was offering she inched her body closer to him, closing the small gap between them. He moved behind her, pulling back slightly, repositioning himself so that his lips could trace a path along her collarbone while the hand draped over her slipped underneath her T-shirt. Without pausing, he gently stroked feather-like fingertips up her side and around the curve of her breasts, teasing one and then the other. His touch, gentle as a caress, was nearly not enough.

He took his time, gradually straying closer to the sensitive peaks, a gasp forming on her parted lips when he caught a nipple between his thumb and forefinger while his lips continued their onslaught on her neck, on her senses. She reached behind her to touch him, stroke him, feel him hard and twitching in her hand. When sucking in a quick breath he tensed and paused, she released him and slowly turned around toward him, opening herself up, craving more of him. He was as ready as she was.

Moving on top of her, he took her lips in a kiss more searing, it seemed, than ever before. Her mouth opened, her tongue darting out to touch his as she returned the kiss with all the fervour she possessed. Her hands moved to his shoulders, in turn gripping and pulling, stroking and kneading, while his hand slid between their bodies down over her stomach to her parted legs, brushing up and down the length of her inner thighs, skimming tantalisingly close to her warm core.

After a while, he pulled back from the kiss, took a breath and moment to watch her in the dim light. Both were breathing hard. More than ready for him, Sara closed her eyes and threw her head back, arching her body up, rubbing against his hand, his erection. He lowered his mouth to her chin, trailing a path to her throat and sternum, her breasts and nipples, her stomach and then back up again while his fingers teased ever closer but never quite making it to where she wanted them most.

"Gil, please," she heard herself gasp. "Please."

Again, she arched up her body and this time he slid two fingers inside her. She felt herself tighten around them, and he paused, waiting until she'd relaxed again and opened her eyes to move inside her with familiar ease. She gave a low, needy moan, then stretched her hand to stroke him, pleasure him as he pleasured her, but he pulled back and shook his head no, not yet, that for now this was about her, not him.

Sara dropped her hand and let herself go. Her moans and groans came louder and louder, building in intensity, a perfect echo of her growing pleasure. On the very edge of her orgasm, she opened her eyes to look at him, only to close them again as finally her body tightened and convulsed around him with sheer abandon **.** When spent and sated she reopened her eyes, he was smiling lovingly at her. She lifted her hands to his face and, reaching up, kissed him softly on the mouth.

Without breaking the kiss, she wrapped her legs around his waist and easily guided him inside her with her hand, causing him to groan into her mouth. Pausing, he pulled back from the kiss, took her by the wrists and gently held her hands above her head while he began to move inside her, thrusting slow and deep at first, before gradually gaining in speed and intensity until suddenly he stopped and she felt him shudder and shake and tremble between her legs.

Laughing, he collapsed on top of her before releasing her wrists, planting a kiss on her shoulder and rolling off her. They took a moment to catch their breath, and then she turned onto her side and he shifted behind her, moulding his body to hers with his arm loosely draped over her. Their bodied were sweaty, entwined, perfectly melded into one as they fell in a peaceful sleep.

Sara woke up to the sound of her phone alarm with a smile on her face. Deeply content and satisfied, she turned over expecting to find her husband beside her, but finding instead a cold, empty space. Her smile faded as she returned to the here and now, but soon formed again as vivid recollections of her dream flooded her brain. She checked his side of the bed again, then felt her fingers to her lips, brushed them down to her chest, to the wetness between her legs in amazement. Her body was still tingling with the afterglow of the lovemaking they had shared. Her orgasm had felt – still felt – so very real.

A wet dream, she realised then, that was what must have happened, because she knew women had them, just like men did, but with much less frequency. She'd had sex dreams before, but never a nocturnal orgasm, or at least she didn't think so. If she had, she'd certainly had no recollection of it in the morning. Chuckling happily, disbelievingly, to herself, she slipped out of bed and headed to the bathroom. Her hair stuck out all over the place, and there was no mistaking the soft glow on her cheeks.

She was happy and excited, eager to be with her husband, and by the feel of it so was her body. Wait until she told him, she thought then, but not in a letter or on the phone. Imagine the look on the mailroom staff's faces if ever they read that. No, she'd wait until she saw him at the weekend so she could see the look on his face and the blush creep up his cheeks when she told him. She and Betty had asked to visit on both Saturday and Sunday, a request which had been granted, and she wasn't sure how Betty wanted to play it. She hoped that in that time she would get some time alone with him too.

Thursday came and with it the last shift at CSI until her return from Houston the following Monday. Trying to adapt to normal night times, she didn't go to bed after shift but stayed up all day. Grissom called, and it sounded like he was looking forward to the visits as much as she was. By early evening, she was all packed and ready, waiting impatiently for her flight the following lunchtime. She was considering a bath and an early night when her phone chimed with a text message. Her first thought was that it was work, and her heart sank. It wasn't, but she almost wished that it had been.

Betty wasn't feeling well. And could Sara come over please?

Without hesitation, Sara replied a quick _On way_. What did Betty mean by not feeling well, she couldn't help wondering? Was it so serious that she didn't think she'd be able to travel the next day? And what would she tell Grissom? She tried to recall if Betty had shown signs of an illness when they'd last seen each other, but that had been nearly a week previously and she came up blank. Grabbing her purse – quickly dropping her phone inside it – her jacket and house keys, she slipped on a pair of canvas shoes and let herself out of the house. The drive to Betty's was a familiar one now, and she was pulling up in a spot outside her apartment complex less than twenty minutes later.

Wishing she had a key so she could let herself in, Sara jabbed her finger to the intercom button and trying to conceal her growing disarray looked at the camera that fed the picture back to the first floor apartment. After a couple of minutes that stretched worryingly, the door finally clicked open and Sara let herself into the lobby. Forgoing the elevator, she quickly made her way up the stairs, only to find Betty's front door already open a crack. Out of habit, Sara knocked before she went in. She closed the door and found Betty half-sitting, half-lying on the couch.

Wearing bedclothes underneath a warm house coat that had been buttoned up haphazardly, Grissom's mother didn't look well at all. Her eyes were closed, red-rimmed and puffy, as was her nose, and without her glasses on she looked much older and frailer than she normally did. Sara approached quietly, kneeling down by Betty's side and gently putting her hand on the older woman's arm, alerting her of her presence. Slowly, Betty's eyes fluttered open and she gave Sara a wan smile.

"What's wrong?" Sara signed, her face mirroring her concern.

Betty weakly motioned toward her glasses on the coffee table and Sara passed them over to her.

"A cold, I think," Betty signed back with one hand. She went on to sign more Sara didn't grasp.

Sara hesitated before raising her hand to Betty's forehead. She was hot to the touch, clammy, indicating a fever, and her breathing was slightly laboured, on the raspy side. If it was a cold, then it was a bad one, and judging by how weak Betty was Sara thought it was more likely to be flu. Wouldn't Betty have had the flu vaccine though? And wasn't August a strange time of year for a cold, especially in Vegas, or for the flu for that matter?

She paused, uncertain as to what to do next, before tapping Betty on the arm again. "Have you seen a doctor?" she signed, when Betty opened her eyes.

Betty shook her head, then brought her hand up to her mouth to stifle a cough.

If it was indeed the flu, or any other virus, then Sara knew that the best remedy was bed rest and plenty of fluid, that apart from over-the-counter medicine to relieve the symptoms a physician wouldn't prescribe much else. Still. Any virus could be dangerous for someone of Betty's age.

"Have you been sick?" Sara asked, unsure what the sign for vomiting was, but pretty certain she made a good enough imitation.

Again, Betty shook her head. Then she shakily raised and pointed both index fingers to her forehead, a sign Sara guessed meant she had a headache.

"Have you got…medicine?"

Nodding, Betty weakly pointed toward an open door Sara assumed to be the bedroom. It was stifling hot in the apartment, and Sara stripped to her blouse. Wordlessly, she went to the kitchen area and set about making them some tea, adding a little honey to Betty's. Back in the lounge, she set the teas down on the table to let them cool.

Betty was dozing and hesitating only briefly Sara moved next door. She'd never been in Betty's bedroom before but like the rest of the apartment it was orderly and elegantly decorated. The bed was unmade, the curtains pulled tightly and the stale, stuffy smell of sickness all indicated that Betty had spent the day there. She made a quick inventory of Betty's depleted supply of Actamin and Advil, some Aleve too, as well as looking for other, more specific medicine that would suggest a worse affliction than a common virus, but found none.

Still she wondered.

Wishing she had a pair of latex gloves with her, she collected a few dirty tissues and disposed of them in the trashcan in the adjoining bathroom. A few photographs in ornate frames caught her eye, and after a glance over her shoulder toward the open bedroom door she stopped to look. One black and white faded picture was a formal portrait of a young Betty holding an infant Grissom in her arms with a tall man Sara assumed to be Grissom's father by their side.

Sara's gaze lingered on the infant, a smile forming at how small he looked dressed in a crisp white, frilly dress and matching bonnet – a baptism gown, she realised belatedly. Another one was of Grissom with a proud Betty beaming alongside him on graduation day. Both wore 1970's outfits that made Sara's smile broaden.

Her smile grew even wider as carefully she picked it up and studied it for a moment before putting it back down and lifting the next one, one that turned her smile wistful and made her body yearn for what she once had. Betty coughed next door, and giving her head a shake to rid herself of her sudden melancholy she quickly put the picture of her and Grissom on their wedding day down before returning to the lounge. Betty was awake and still coughing. She looked in pain.

"I've made you some tea," Sara signed, motioning at the mugs on the table, hoping the hot drink would alleviate the sore throat.

Betty gave a weak nod and tried to sit up. Sara helped her as much as she could, then brought the mug of tea to Betty's hands and watched apprehensively as Betty shakily brought it to her lips and took a few slow sips. When she lowered the mug from her lips, Sara sprang into action again, taking the mug from her and placing it back on the table.

"Thank you," Betty signed.

Sara gave a nod. "Have you had anything to eat?"

Betty shook her head.

Sara's signing was uncertain. "You should."

"I'm not hungry."

Sara paused, hesitating. "I haven't had any dinner. I'll make us some eggs. Do you have eggs?" And when Betty didn't reply, "It's okay. I'll check. If not, I can go to the store. I don't mind."

Betty circled a weak fist to her chest. "I'm sorry."

Sara frowned. "What for?"

Betty pointed at herself and at her pitiful state before signing, "I don't think I can travel to see Gil."

Sara tried to hide the disappointment from her face. "It's okay. We can postpone. I'll get in touch with the prison to let them know. I'll let Gil know too."

Betty was shaking her head and hands. Then she pointed at Sara. "No. You go. Tell him not to worry, that I'll come soon." Despite her signing being slow, almost hard work, Betty herself was growing agitated. "I'm so angry," she went on, her already rheumy eyes suddenly filling tears.

Sara repeated the sign with puzzlement. "Angry?"

"With myself. For being sick. For letting Gil down."

"It's not your fault." Sara paused, searching for more signs. "I'll just…we can…go see Gil later. In two or three weeks, when you're feeling better."

"It's all organised, paid for. You've booked the time off work." Pausing, Betty managed a soft smile. "You go. For the both of us."

Sensing it futile to argue, Sara kept quiet. Truth be told she was desperate to go, but felt it wouldn't be right in the circumstance. Betty needed her, and if Grissom couldn't be there for his mother, then _she_ needed to be. She reached for her tea and drank from it, then passed Betty her own mug. When Betty had drunk her fill, Sara pointed toward the bedroom, suggesting Betty went back to bed. "You would be more comfortable there."

Betty nodded her head, and Sara helped her to her feet and into bed. She refilled the glass of water on the bedside table and after establishing how long it had been since Betty had last taken medication helped her swallow down a couple of Advils. When Betty drifted off again, Sara left the room. At the door, she turned back and stared, hoping yet again that this virus hid nothing more sinister, and that the older woman had many more years in front of her. It would devastate Grissom if she were to die before he was released.

Sara went to the store, stocking up on ingredients to make chicken soup – Betty's own recipe that Grissom swore by – more over-the-counter medicine as well as some throat lozenges. Afterwards, she went home to pick up the chicken soup recipe, grabbing her baggage, passport and plane tickets on the off-chance. The flight wasn't until midday the next day. She'd spend the night at Betty's and play it by ear. If Betty, instead of getting better, got worse then she'd get in touch with Grissom to let him know about the change of plans. He'd be disappointed but he'd understand. She was sure that if he knew his mother was sick he'd want her to cancel the visit and stay behind.

Back at Betty's, she made soup and herself some dinner. Several times, she took her phone out and almost emailed Grissom to let him know of his mother's condition. Remembering he wouldn't have access to a computer until the next day, she didn't. Then she did a little research; first looking up and practising the signs for the most common medical terms so she wasn't so clueless, before looking up the flu virus itself, reading what she already knew about flu typically lasting one to two weeks, with severe symptoms subsiding in two to three days. How long had Betty been feeling unwell, she wondered? Was what she was experiencing right then the severe-symptoms phase? Or was that yet to come? And what could she do to help Betty recover quicker?

She checked on Betty often, making sure the older woman was as comfortable as she could in the circumstance. At about 11 pm, Betty woke up hungry and Sara was more than happy to feed her a little soup. She'd tasted it, and it seemed fine. She'd never had to take care of someone the way she was doing now, and she marvelled at the fact that she knew how to. It almost felt like she was taking care of a child. There was a frailty and helplessness to Betty being sick that wasn't there when either she or Grissom were ill.

She found a spare comforter and pillow, had a quick wash and made herself as comfortable as possible on the couch. Too on edge to sleep, she put the television on, surprised when the sound came on quite loudly as well as closed captioning. Instinctively, she turned the sound down low. Sleep came at some point, restless and broken, and when she woke up she had a kink in her neck and a sore back. The television was still on, and on her way to check on Betty she turned it off.

Betty seemed to have had a good night. The glass of water was almost empty, which Sara took as a good sign. After a little scrambled egg and more medication, Sara filled the bathroom sink with hot water and mixed in a large dollop of Vicks VapoRub. Then, she brought a chair she placed in front of the sink and instructed Betty to sit down on it with her head bowed over the sink.

Betty laughed and shook her head, and Sara frowned in puzzlement.

"It's going to help you," she signed.

"I know," Betty replied with her hands. "I used to do this to Gil when he was little."

The two women shared a smile, and Betty took off her glasses, folding them and putting them at the edge of the sink. With Sara's help, she sat down on the chair and closing her eyes leaned her head over the steaming water. Sara moved a hand towel to Betty's hand on her lap and went back to the bedroom. There, she opened the curtains and the window to let some well-needed fresh air in and set about stripping the bed. She would let it air for a while and then make it up again with clean sheets.

Betty seemed a little better that morning, brighter, and Sara hoped it was a sign that she was over the worst of it. She took a nap, and when she woke up again Sara warmed up some soup. She was feeding Betty some, when the older woman startled. "Sara, your flight!"

Sara smiled, hesitating, and put the bowl of soup and spoon down to sign. "It's okay. I'm not going. I can't—"

"Of course, you're going," Betty interrupted animatedly. She glanced at the bedside clock. "You can still make it if you hurry."

Sara raised her hands to object.

"With your help, I'm feeling a lot better," Betty went on. "I think I can't take over from here."

Even though she had a moment's pause, Sara didn't need much convincing. "You sure?"

Holding Sara's gaze steadily, Betty gave a vehement nod.

Sara sighed, then raised a finger, indicating for Betty to wait. She fetched her cell and called the airline, checking for availability on a later flight, happily paying the administration fee in order to be able to swap and giving a bemused Betty a thumbs-up. Then she called Nick, hoping he wasn't in bed. Betty slowly got out of bed, motioning that she was going to the bathroom.

"Sara!" Nick said by way of greeting, in his usual, cheerful drawl. His voice was distant, a little echoey, and she guessed he was driving. "I didn't think I'd hear from you until you got back. You and Mrs G all good to go?"

"Well, that's the thing," Sara said, and in a hushed voice went on to explain about Betty having the flu and being too sick to travel. "She'd adamant I should go but I'm not sure."

"How can I help?" he asked with puzzlement.

"Well, I was wondering if you'd mind if I gave her your cell number in case of an emergency, if she took a turn or had a fall or something. I mean as I said she's looking better today and…well, you wouldn't need to come around or anything – I think she'd be embarrassed if you did – but just knowing you're at the end of a text should she need it…well…"

"Sure. No problem. Give her my number."

She breathed a sigh of relief. "Thanks, Nick. There's chicken soup in the fridge—"

"You made soup?"

Sara couldn't help the smile that formed on hearing his disbelief. "It's good too. And there's plenty to go around if you're interested."

Nick laughed. "I thought you explicitly told me not to come around."

Doubts that she was doing the right thing once again crept in. "Oh, I don't know," she said. "Maybe I should cancel altogether and stay with her. That's what a good daughter-in-law would do, right?"

"You're doing everything you can, Sara. I'm sure it's more than she expected. Just give her my number; it's no trouble."

"Okay," she said in a sigh. She heard the flush go next door. "She lives on 3250 Town Center Drive, apartment 104. It's on the first floor, top of the stairs on the left. There's an intercom. Oh, and remember to look at the tiny camera so she knows it's you she's opening the door to."

"But if she's taken a fall…"

Sara's heart sank. "Oh, Nick, you're right. It's a bad idea."

"It's not," he countered, laughing. "I was just messing with you. I'm sure she's going to be fine."

The bathroom door opened, and Betty wandered back into the room, and putting aside the last of her doubts Sara gave her a smile. "Thanks Nick," she said into the phone while helping Betty sit down on the edge of the bed. "I don't know what I'd do without your support."

"Hey, don't mention it, alright? Just say hello to the Lone Star State for me."

"I will." After thanking him again, Sara hung up and turned to Betty. "Okay," she said, and then remembering to use her hands, "I've swapped my plane ticket. I'm on the…11.45 flight tonight. But…" she paused. "You remember my friend Nick? He works with me at the lab."

A frown on her face, Betty nodded her head.

"I'll only go if you promise to text him if there's an issue. I've just spoken to him and he's happy to be your emergency contact."

A slow smile spread on Betty's tired face, and she nodded her head. "Thank you, but I'll be fine."

For the rest of the day, Sara took care of Betty better than she would have taken care of herself. She fed her a little dinner, then put her to bed, making sure she had everything she could possibly need within reach. Her cell was fully charged, and she'd made her promise to keep it with her at all times, even if only going to the bathroom, that she would keep in touch by text and please to reply or she'd be forced to call Nick.

She was still unsure whether she was making a mistake, but she left for the airport anyway.

And as she sat on the plane, exhausted but unable to sleep, her worry gradually subsided, replaced by feelings of anticipation.

Because in a few hours, she'd be seeing her husband again.


	25. Chapter 25

Grissom woke early that Saturday morning, long before the buzzer. When he couldn't stand anymore of lying there, he pushed the bed sheet back and, mindful not to bang his head against the frame of the top bunk, swung his legs over the edge of the cot. He'd tossed and turned anxiously for a long time before he'd finally gone to sleep. His cellmate's loud snoring hadn't helped either.

But he'd felt tense and excited at the same time – still did now – his feelings of anticipation over Sara and his mother's impending visits and the good news he had to share with them sadly tainted by worry over a letter he'd received the previous day. He'd tried to concentrate his thoughts on Sara, on the fact that in a few hours he'd be seeing her again, but the knowledge that she lay asleep in some hotel less than a half-hour away had driven him to distraction. She was so near, and yet so unattainable that it hurt.

Fairfax was still dead to the world and, slowly, tiredly pushing to his socked feet, he did his business before washing his hands and splashing cold water over his face. Thirsty, he cupped his hand and drank straight from the faucet. He took off the white T-shirt he slept in, ran a soapy washcloth over his sweaty chest and under his armpits, rinsed, and dried himself. In the dim corridor light, he studied his reflection in the mirror and stroked his hand over the three-day stubble on his cheeks and chin. He'd borrow a razor later and shave.

Moving soundlessly about the cell, he opened his locker and reached for a clean uniform shirt he slipped on. The previous day's mail caught his eye, and he took it out. The first letter, from his case manager, brought a smile to his face, but the second, opened by the mailroom staff but still unread by him, made his heart grow heavy. Fairfax stirred and Grissom turned toward him. Satisfied that his cellmate was still sleeping, he moved to his cot and sat down heavily on the edge of it with the letter in his trembling hands.

He had tried to read it several times the previous evening and night, had even pulled the single sheet of paper out of the envelope but just looking at it brought back feelings of shame, guilt and self-loathing so strong that he hadn't been able to. Even now as he stared at length at the shaky handwriting on the envelope – handwriting he recognised despite only seeing it once before; he hadn't needed to check the mailer's name and address on the envelope to know who the letter was from – he couldn't find the courage. He swallowed the constriction in his throat, the negative feelings that yet again resurfaced, and not wanting to sour his mood before Sara and his mother's visit, once again put the letter away. He'd read it later; he doubted the content was time-sensitive anyway.

The buzzer sounded suddenly, starling him. Fairfax groaned, then cursed as the main lights flickered on and the cellblock came alive for another day. He got a book out, and pretended to read while Fairfax went about his business. After breakfast, he went back to the cell, put on his shower shoes and, wash kit in hand, made his way to the shower block. There he was allowed to shave under supervision and when he was done he made sure he used up every one of his fifteen minutes under the warm spray. Afterwards, he felt a little better, less downcast and more relaxed, excited even.

And then he was waiting in the hall with the other inmates due for visitors that day. The line was subdued, the checks thorough. When his turn came, his name and inmate number were checked against the list of visitors. Then he submitted himself to the humiliating but inevitable search for contraband. When they'd all been checked, handcuffs were put on and they were taken out of the housing unit through a series of corridors to the block that housed the visitation room. That building was air-conditioned, a treat in itself. Prisoners from other units waited already, others came shortly afterwards. Handcuffs were removed, names and numbers checked again before they were allowed inside the room in an orderly single file.

Sara was already waiting there, her gaze fixed on him, a bright smile on her lips when he looked over at her. His heartbeat quickened, swelling with love, as his face lit up with joy on seeing her. It was all he could do not to run and take her in his arms. Instead, eyes locked to her brimming ones, he made himself walk across the room. She wore a light blue, short-sleeved shirt over jeans and her hair loose and curly, shorter than the last time he'd seen her. She looked happy and excited, if a little apprehensive and tired, and he wondered how long it had been since she'd last had a proper night's sleep.

He'd expected both her and his mother to be visiting together, to be sitting alongside each other, and was surprised that it wasn't the case. His eyes left Sara's face, checking the rest of the tables, the vending machines area, the entrance to the bathroom, for signs of Betty but saw none. Trying to cover his puzzlement, he turned his attention back to Sara. Her smile had faded, but now it returned and so did his. She stood up abruptly as he reached the table.

Her smile trembling, she quickly closed the gap between them before planting a hasty kiss on his lips and closing her arms around him. He waited for the bark of an order instructing them to stop and sit down, but it didn't come. His emotion spilling, he wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly to him. She hugged him back with as much fervour, and closing his eyes he relished the all-too-brief moment of actually holding her in his arms.

When finally they pulled back, they stared at each other, entranced, wordless, until an officer nearby told them to sit. Startling, they did as bid, and after moving aside the clear plastic bag full of change that Sara had brought Grissom reached for her hands on the table and gave them a strong squeeze.

"I thought this moment would never come," he said, earnest.

"Me too," she replied, chuckling softly, almost uncomfortably.

Something in her tone caused alarm bells to ring. "Where's Mom?" he asked before she could speak again, his eyes flicking to the visitors' entrance door, almost expecting his mother to come through, and then back to Sara. "You didn't come in together?"

A shadow of pain crossed her face, and she sighed.

He frowned. "Sara?"

She lowered her gaze to their joined hands, before looking back up decisively. "She couldn't come," she said in a small, apologetic voice.

His puzzlement intensified. "She stayed at the hotel?"

Her face fell. She opened her mouth but all that came out was a long, uncertain breath.

Understanding suddenly dawned. "She didn't come at all, did she?" He didn't try to hide the disappointment from his voice and features.

Sara swallowed and shook her head softly. "I'm sorry, Gil, but she couldn't. I wanted to let you know yesterday, but then I wasn't sure I'd be coming myself and—"

"Wow," he cut in, his head shaking with disbelief. "Slow down. What happened?"

"Betty's not been well, Gil. She desperately wanted to come, but there's no way she was up to making the trip."

Grissom pulled his hands back from hers and wiped at his face anxiously. Even though he'd been fearing this kind of news for a long time, it still came as a shock. "What's wrong with her? Is it serious?"

"She said she had a cold, but—"

"But what?" he prompted quietly, nervously, when she paused in her tracks.

"I think it's the flu. It was much worse than a cold anyway, even a bad one."

"But she gets vaccinated against the flu," he countered disbelievingly, and then more despondently when it occurred to him that there was a lot about his mother he didn't know anymore, "Or she used to anyway."

Sara's shoulder lifted. "I didn't ask her, but you know as well as I do that the flu vaccine only protects you against the previous year's strains."

He gave a lengthy sigh, and she reached for his hand on the table.

"I spent all of yesterday with her, the previous night too. She—"

"You spent the night?" Tears filled his eyes at the thought that she shouldn't have had to do that, that _he_ should have been there for his mother, not stuck behind bars, and he looked away to hide his shame.

She gave his hand a comforting squeeze. "She was eating and moving about, already feeling better by the time I left." He turned back toward her, and she smiled reassuringly. "I stayed with her as long as I could, even swapped my ticket for the late-night flight."

He gave a nod. "How did you know she was ill?"

"She sent me a text asking me to come. Thursday evening it was, I was about to run myself a bath before getting an early night."

Well, that explained why she looked so tired, he thought.

"She wanted to tell me she didn't think she'd be able to come to see you," she said when silence stretched between them. "But I stayed. It was no big deal really. I went to the store, bought her more medication, made enough soup to feed a family. Learnt a whole bunch of new signs."

Her last comment managed to elicit a smile from him.

"The soup's nowhere near as good as yours, but it was okay."

His smile widened, but sadly her words, meant to be appeasing, did little to ease his overall worry. "Thank you," he said. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Her face softened with a smile. "Hey, don't mention it, alright? What are daughters-in-law for, huh?"

"No, Sara," he countered quietly. "That's what sons are for."

"Gil—" Pausing, she looked at him with understanding and compassion in her eyes. "She's going to be fine, alright? I got a text from her this morning and she said she'd had a good night and was feeling much better."

He covered his growing unease behind a stiff smile and a nod, but once again he was struggling to cope with his feelings of ineptitude. "Maybe you should have postponed the visit altogether."

"I suggested it, but she was adamant. She didn't want you to be disappointed, and you know what she's like. Even unwell, she's still a force to be reckoned with." She gave him a sheepish smile. "And truth be told, I was desperate to see you."

Glancing toward the officer that walked past their table, she reached for his hands loosely clasped together in front of him. He told himself that he had to trust her judgement, that if she'd been overly worried about his mother's condition she'd have cancelled the visit and stayed.

"And anyway I got Nick on standby just in case," she went on. "I can ask him to pop round and check on her later if you want."

"Oh, she'd like that," he said wryly.

"Maybe not, but tough."

Her flippancy made him smile.

"I'll text her again after the visit, okay? Report back to you tomorrow. Or better still, I'll email and you can have news tonight."

"That'd be nice." His spirits lifted, he mustered a wider smile. "Just…just send her my love and tell her I hope she gets better soon. That I'll email soon."

Still smiling, Sara nodded her head. They fell silent, and just as she was doing he let his eyes wander over her face. Work, and then his mother's illness and the journey; no wonder she looked tired.

"You're staying at the same place as last time?" he asked at the same time as she remarked that he looked well, and they laughed.

"It's the new haircut," he said. He'd had his hair cut the previous day, by Fairfax of all people – who worked at the barber shop – and he had to admit that the guy had done a good job of making him look less…military and more like his old self.

"It's more than just the haircut," she said quietly, perceptively. She was seeing it too.

"I feel well," he said. "Better than the last time you saw me, that's for sure."

She gave a thoughtful nod. "You're almost looking like—"

"Before?" he provided, when she faltered.

Her smile fading slightly, she gave a nod.

He touched his fingers to his head, tried to make light of the situation before the mood became too melancholy and longing for a time that couldn't be anymore. "It had grown quite a bit since…you know…since before the attack and I told Fairfax not to buzzcut it."

"Fairfax?" she queried with a lift of her brow.

He chuckled. "I still don't like the guy, but he's okay, I guess. The colour of my skin helps." Talking of Fairfax made him remember he hadn't told her his news. "I've got some good news," he said, and gave her a cheerful grin that wrinkled at the corners of his eyes.

Sara's face lit up. "You got approved?" she exclaimed a little too loudly, and sheepishly checked no one was watching them.

He gave her a giddy nod. "I did. My custody level's been downgraded. They're shipping me as soon as a space frees up."

"That's great," Sara enthused. "Oh, Gil, I'm so happy for you." Her eyes filled suddenly, despite the smile dancing on her lips, and quickly she wiped at the underside of her eyes with her knuckles. "It's such a relief, you wouldn't believe."

"I know."

"How long have you known?" she then asked. "And why didn't I hear all about it when we spoke on the phone?"

Her excitement was contagious. "I only got the letter yesterday," he said, laughing.

"Did they give you a date?"

"No. All they said is that a transfer can take between three weeks to six months, which we already know. I don't know where I'm going either," he added, pre-empting her next question. "Just that I'm being shipped to a low-security facility, hopefully a little closer to home as per my request."

Sara's smile vanished, and she frowned, her disappointment clear to see. "Not minimum?"

"No," he said. He gave her hand a squeeze. "But low's good. It's fine. I'll be in a dorm; I'll have more freedom, less controlled movement and restrictions. Less violence too. Guys in low have either had their points lowered like me and believe me the last thing they want is to go back, or they committed white-collar, non-violent crimes."

"There'll still be a fence."

His expression softened. "Wherever they put me, Sara, there'd always be a fence even it's not _there_."

"Manuel went to a camp," she argued. "I assumed you'd go to one too."

"Manuel didn't kill anyone. And he'd been confined for a lot longer than me." He could tell she was disappointed but, as far as he was concerned, she shouldn't be. "Whichever way you look at it, it's good news, Sara, believe me."

Sara blew out a long breath, then nodded her head vehemently. "I know. I'm sorry." She forced a smile. "I'm happy for you. I really am. I'll tell your mother tonight. She'll be thrilled."

Talking of his mother sobered him again, and once again they fell silent.

"You thirsty? Hungry?" she asked suddenly.

"Sure," he said, grateful for the change of tack.

They settled on coffees, and Sara went to purchase them. She made her way to the hot drinks vending machine and shook her head before turning toward him. "Out of order," she mouthed, and he smiled. Probably a good thing, he thought. She raised a brow questioningly, and he opened his hands that it didn't matter to him, just to pick something. With a sigh, she turned back toward the bank of vending machines and while she made her selections he thought about his mother, and then about the letter he'd received. Should he even mention it to her?

"You okay?" she asked, drawing him out of his musings when she sat back down across from him.

Refocusing with a start, he gave her a smile. "Sure. Sorry." She reached for a can of Seven Up, and he lowered his eyes to the tray of food and drinks she'd placed between them. There were more snacks there than he normally indulged in a week.

Without pausing for breath, she pulled back the ring pull and took a long swig of the soda. "Sorry," she said afterwards, "I needed that." No sooner had she put the can down than she tore into a packet of Big Texas cinnamon roll.

A smile formed, tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You looking after yourself properly?" he asked casually, amusedly, looking up and catching her mid-bite as he opened the second can of Seven Up.

"I am," she replied, smiling as she chewed. "I just missed breakfast this morning, that's all." Pausing, she finished her mouthful. "You're not eating?"

And as they ate, he enquired about work and the team. She talked quietly so they wouldn't be overheard, but freely and happily, regaling him with amusing stories, and he was glad everything was going well for her on that front. She asked if he'd read the article she'd sent him about the North American cold wave and polar vortex the previous winter, and they chatted about that and climate change for a while. He asked if she'd heard from Manuel – she hadn't – and they discussed the camp he was at that she'd looked up for him.

After bathroom stops, she bought them some lunch, a chicken and bacon salad for him he ate with gusto. In the past, he would have complained that it wasn't as fresh as it could have been, bland and tasteless too, but it was so much better than the chow hall food he was used to that it almost felt like he was eating gourmet food. Visitors and prisoners came and went around them and still they found more topics to talk about, until all too soon it was announced that they only had fifteen minutes left. He still hadn't mentioned the letter that weighed so heavily on his mind.

"Hey, it's not so bad," she said, trying to sound cheerful. "I'm coming back tomorrow."

He gave her hand a squeeze, mustered a smile. "I look forward to it already."

She fixed him with a probing stare. "Gil, what is it?"

"What is what?"

"You've got this look again. You worried about your Mom?"

He shrugged. "A little."

"I'll email as soon as I hear from her, okay?"

"I know. Thank you."

She paused, watched him with concern. "Something else is bothering you, I can tell." A chair scraped back as the visitor next to them stood to leave. "Gil, talk to me," she said more urgently now. "Is it that guy Armstrong?"

He stared at her with puzzlement. "Armstrong? No."

"Then what is it?"

"Nothing." He tried a smile, which evidently didn't fool her, and sighed. "There was a second letter in the post yesterday," he admitted finally.

"Gil?" she said, alarm creeping in her voice when he stopped in his tracks. "What was it?"

"I don't know," he said in a sigh, and scratched at the back of his head. "I haven't read it."

Her gaze narrowed questioningly. "Why not? Are you expecting bad news?" And when he didn't say anything, "Do you know who it's from?"

His gaze averting, Grissom nodded his head. "It's…" he sighed, and made himself look at her straight in the eye, "It's from a man called Roberto Martinez. He's—"

Sara's ears pricked up. "I know who he is," she said quietly, her gaze lowering uncomfortably.

He paused and watched her with puzzlement, wondering how she could know. Maybe his attorney had told her, he thought then. But then why the guilty look? "Sara?"

She sighed. "Don't be mad, please."

Tension made his jaw muscles bunch. "Go on."

She was looking hesitant, and he knew he wouldn't like what she was about to confess. "Remember when I came to see you the first time? Just after I'd found out you were here?" she asked. He nodded and she went on. "I told you I'd spoken to your attorney."

"You did."

"I also read the court transcripts," she continued cautiously.

He could tell by her tone of voice that she was still holding back, and so he just stared at her expectantly. But when her expression became fearful, the penny dropped. "You contacted him? Mr Martinez? You wrote to him?"

Sara winced, and he let out a long incredulous breath.

"Don't tell me you phoned him."

Sara's guilty look intensified.

"Oh, Sara, no," he said desolately. "You went to _see_ him?"

Holding his gaze levelly, she nodded her head.

"But why?" he asked beseechingly.

She shrugged. "You wouldn't tell me anything, and I knew so little. I needed to know what had happened. I needed more than the court transcripts and the words of your attorney. So, I called him and he agreed to see me."

Even though he was looking at her, Grissom's gaze became distant as he listened to her explanation. He wasn't angry with her, he was just very sad that she'd gotten involved in a part of his life he was so very ashamed of and desperate to keep hidden.

"His daughter was there," she was saying now, and he refocused on her. "She was angry, still raw by the loss, but Mr Martinez was kind. He spoke with me, helped me understand what you were going through."

He could only stare at her, dumbfounded.

She shrugged. "I'm sorry. I should have told you, but…we kind of never got the chance and it's not something I wanted to write in my letters." Her right hand twitched on the table in front of her as if she wanted to reach out to him but didn't dare to. "Gil? Please, tell me you're not mad."

"I'm not mad," he said finally, mustering a smile as he took her hand. "It's okay. I'm not mad." It wasn't okay, of course, far from it, but he didn't want her to know that.

"He told me that he'd written you before, but that you didn't reply," she went on cautiously. "Did you read his letter then?"

His eyes averting shamefully, he nodded his head. It had taken him a long time, but he'd made himself read the letter. He'd considered the inner turmoil and heartbreak it had caused him part of his penance.

"Why didn't you reply?"

He looked up and opened his mouth, but no words came out.

"It's okay," she said soothingly. "Maybe you weren't ready then."

"I don't think I'm ready now," he said in a whisper.

Another message played over the PA system. The few remaining prisoners and visitors stood to leave, and Grissom's heart sank further. An officer moved to their table, telling them to hurry. He gave a despondent nod and dutifully pushed to his feet. He wished this hadn't been the last thing they'd spoken about.

Sara stood up too, hesitating only briefly before once again closing the gap and giving him a heartfelt hug. "You can do it," she said in his ear.

Pulling back from her, he nodded his head and smiled through his pain. The officer took his elbow, steering him away.

"I love you," she mouthed, giving him a shaky smile as he was made to leave.

He managed a smile and let his eyes return the sentiment before he was forcefully turned around. He was the last prisoner through the door.

The cell was empty when he got back. Grateful for the quiet, he lied down on his cot, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose to ease the dull ache in his head. Hearing about his mother's ill health had really knocked him sideways. He'd give Sara enough time to get back to her hotel and make contact with his mother, and for her email to reach his account, before he headed to the computer room to check. And then there was the worry over the letter.

"You can do it," echoed softly in his mind.

Before he could chicken out again, Grissom got up and fetched the letter from his locker. This time he didn't think about it, he just took the single sheet of cheap paper out and unfolded it. The message was short, and the small, shaky handwriting told Grissom a lot about Mr Martinez's health right then. Bracing himself, he began to read.

 _Mr Grissom,_

 _I don't know if you ever got the letter I wrote you last year, but I fear not since I never got a reply. I'd like to think you would have replied to it otherwise. Anyhow, I told myself it was worth another try and I'm hopeful this time the letter does get to you._

 _I don't know if she told you, but your wife came to see me some weeks ago. She said you weren't doing well. I hope you're doing better now._

 _You say in the letter you wrote me when I was in the hospital that you will never forget or forgive yourself what happened. Don't forget, but forgive yourself you must. Paula would have wanted it that way. That's the kind of woman she was._

 _I would have like to come and visit you, see how you're doing and say those words to you personally. But the docs, well they say I'm not well enough._

 _You're still young, with a wife that loves you and a life worth living. Me, I'm at the end of mine._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Roberto Martinez._


	26. Chapter 26

A/N: Sorry, but the chapters seem to be getting longer and longer. I hope they don't drag. This one in particular.

* * *

Sara walked across the visitors' car lot with a heavy heart. Her rental was the last one left in the bay, and reaching for the key fob she unlocked the car and retrieved her purse from the trunk. It was stifling hot inside and quickly she turned on the engine to activate the air conditioning. The administration building stood ahead of her and behind it the main prison complex. With a sigh, she wondered where he was – _how_ he was.

She was reaching for the seatbelt when tears welled in her eyes unexpectedly. She felt so tired all of a sudden, so drained and weary, that she didn't have the strength to fight them off. Pausing, she closed her eyes and let her tears fall. The visit hadn't been as light-hearted as she would have liked, Betty's illness and subsequent no-show understandably coming as a shock to Grissom.

But watching as he was forcefully turned and led away from her had wrenched her heart. He'd looked so sad and dejected, so beaten by his situation, that she wasn't sure how she could help him. She wished he'd told her earlier in the visit about Mr Martinez's letter and not just sprung it on her at the last minute. Maybe then she would have been better prepared to help him.

She remained like so, head bowed over the steering wheel, feeling sorry for herself, feeling sorry for her husband, until she remembered Betty and her promise to Grissom to email with news as soon as possible. Startling, she wiped at her tears, rummaged inside her purse for her cell and switched it back on. There was a missed call from Nick, a voice message probably from him too, and a text from Betty. Quickly she tapped on the icon and opened the text. Betty wanted to know how Gil was and how the visit had gone. _If only she knew_ , Sara thought.

 _Visit good,_ she typed. _Gil had some good news. Custody level downgraded. Transfer approved._ She paused, then added a smiley face and pressed send. And then, as an afterthought, in a second text, _How are you?_

She hadn't been able to hide her disappointment but his being transferred to a low-security facility _was_ good news. It would mean a fresh start, or at least the start of a new phase for him, without all the anxiety and distress associated with Beaumont med. It meant that he was one step closer to being a free man. It would be the place where he – they – could begin to prepare themselves for, and look forward to, a future without bars.

He had just under a year left of his sentence, but with time accrued through good conduct and the work he did, and parole, which if everything carried on as it was he should be granted, he should get out of prison much sooner than that. Thinking about their future afterwards was exciting, and this time she would be with him every step of the way.

She listened to Nick's voicemail where he told her he hadn't heard from Betty at all, and did she want him to go over and check on her anyway? He'd been about to hang up when he'd paused and asked how _she_ was and to call him if she just wanted to talk or vent or whatever. Nick's solicitude brought more tears to her eyes but this time she kept them from spilling. If she called him now, she knew she'd cry and she didn't want him to worry. It was still early; he wouldn't be starting shift for a few more hours. She'd call him when she was back at the hotel and hopefully a little calmer.

Seatbelt fastened, she put the car in reverse, backed out of the spot and drove the thirty minutes or so back to the hotel on the outskirts of Beaumont. In her room, she checked her cell – still no reply from Betty – turned on the television with the sound low and got undressed, headed straight for the shower. She let the cool water wash away some of her stress and worry, for the time being at least, before she got out. Dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, she checked her cell again, then made herself comfortable on the bed in front of the television and called Nick.

"Hey," he greeted in his easy drawl, picking up. "You got my message."

"I did," she replied, laughing.

"So how did it go?" he asked, clearly eager to have news.

"It went well."

"The bug man's fully recovered?"

The old moniker brought a smile to her lips. "He has," she replied. "He's looking good." Well, that wasn't a lie, she thought, because until the very end he'd looked and sounded so much like his old self. Giving her head a shake, she went on to tell Nick about the transfer and how she couldn't wait for that to happen.

"Oh, that is good news," he said warmly. "Really good news. You must be so relieved."

"I am. We both are. We're just waiting on a date and a destination."

"Well, let's just hope they can find somewhere a little closer to home this time. Make it easier for you and his mother to visit. Did he ask for a hardship transfer?"

Sara was surprised that Nick knew what a hardship transfer was. One was usually considered only when a medical condition impacted the immediate family member's ability to travel to visit the offender. Grissom had mentioned his mother's deafness and old age when he'd made the request but maybe now he could add ill-health to the list. She made a mental note to bring it up the next day.

"He did," she replied. "But you know how the system works. There's no guarantees."

"Fair enough." Nick paused, hesitating. "How do you think he'd feel if I…oh, I don't know…wrote to him maybe? You know when he's settled into his new digs," he went on, uncertainty creeping into his voice.

Sara smiled. "I think he'd like that," she said, once again touched by Nick's thoughtfulness. "But I don't think he's ready for more yet."

"That's cool."

Being in contact with Nick, she thought, as easy going and non-judgemental as he was, would be a good first step toward telling the rest of their friends what had happened and mending a few fences too. How Grissom would react was a different matter, though, and an argument for another day.

"So, anyway," Nick went on cheerfully, drawing her back to the moment, "about Mrs G. What do you want me to do?"

"Nothing. I heard from her earlier and she said she was fine. I think I've got to trust she's telling the truth. I'm waiting on a reply to a text as we speak and I'll take it from there."

"Okay. Whatever you think is best. Just call if you need me to do anything. It's no problem."

"Thanks, Nick."

They talked for a while longer before she thanked him again and they hung up. He was being such a good friend to her; she didn't know how she'd cope without him on her side. She wished she could confide in Greg and the others too, but Greg especially. She'd wanted to discuss telling Greg with Grissom over the weekend but he had so much to deal with right then that she wasn't sure it was the right time. And yet she knew that the longer she perpetuated the lie the harder it would be to confess to it. She was dozing off in front of the TV when the beeping of an incoming text message roused her. Startling, she reached for her cell on her lap and opened the text.

 _Great news about Gil,_ Betty wrote. _I'm so happy for him. Wish I was there with you. Give him my love, will you? Tell him I emailed. Oh, and I'm fine._

 _Fine_ , Sara thought and gave her head a shake, hardly believing it, and sent a quick _Will do_ in reply. Wondering whether she herself would be as independent and stubborn as Grissom's mother when she was the same age, she connected to the hotel Wi-Fi and sent Grissom the promised email, passing on his mother's message and adding a few encouraging words of her own. She was sure hearing directly from Betty would be a huge boost to him. Afterwards, she and Betty texted back and forth for a little while until Sara's eyes grew heavy again and she fell asleep.

When she next woke up, it was dark. The television was playing to itself and, after switching on the bedside light, she turned it off. A look at her cell told her it was 10pm, and she sighed. Her sleep pattern was all over the place, and she knew she'd find it hard to fall asleep again for the night. Quickly, she checked if Grissom had replied to the email – he hadn't – and she couldn't even be sure that he'd read it, or his mother's for that matter. Her stomach gave a loud grumble, the lunchtime egg salad she'd eaten at the prison now but a distant memory, and getting up she swapped her shorts for jeans and grabbed her jacket and purse.

The hotel restaurant had closed for the night and the only food on offer came from a vending machine in the lobby. Balking at the sight, she took the car and drove into town. Beaumont was no Vegas as far as being open 24/7, and the only restaurants she encountered were fast food outlets of the meat variety. She was about to give up and turn around when she spotted the bright lights of Cheddar's Scratch Kitchen, a family-friendly chain serving American comfort food with a Texas twist, plus cocktails. She would dispense with the cocktails but the comfort food she could do with.

The restaurant had few diners in when she went in, but the waitress, whose nametag read Cherry, was welcoming and happy to serve her nonetheless. When given the choice she opted to eat in and, after being shown a table near the bar and given a menu, she quickly made her choice – Bourbon glazed grilled salmon with rice and two sides with a handcrafted raspberry lemonade. Cherry took her order, then came back from the kitchen wanting to chat. Feeling somewhat lonely, Sara was only too happy for the distraction and company.

When she got back to the hotel, it was past midnight. She put the television on, went through the channels until she found a film, and then because she was bored and restless began penning Grissom a letter. It was silly really, what could she tell him in the letter that she wouldn't be able to say in person the next day, but it soothed her anxious mind. And when finally she nodded off again, she slept soundly until the early hours of the morning.

She checked her cell as soon as she woke up. Neither Betty nor Grissom had made contact, and she told herself not to worry, that it was still early. She hoped both had had good nights, feared it wasn't the case, for Grissom anyway. Today, unlike the previous day when after a delayed flight she'd finally checked into the hotel at 2am, not going to bed until well after 3am and consequently oversleeping, she didn't need to rush her morning routine. Wanting to look nice for him, she took care choosing her clothes and doing her hair, opting to put on a little makeup and perfume.

She arrived at the prison complex with plenty of time to spare and joined the line of cars waiting to be searched for drugs and weapons. When her turn came, she presented her driving licence and rental car papers, opened the trunk and engine hood and let the officers carry out their checks. They cleared her for entry and she drove straight to the administration building, pulling into the same spot as the previous day. Before getting out, she checked her cell one last time and found a text from Betty. It brought good news and a wide smile to her lips. She switched off her cell and returned it to her purse, took out the clear plastic bag of change and her ID, and stowed her purse in the trunk of the car.

Cell phones were strictly forbidden inside the visitation building and without her purse she'd move through the security line much faster. Inside the building she joined the line of people already there and when it moved forward, just like at an airport, took off her shoes and placed her car keys, bag and ID in a container, which was sent through the x-ray machine. She walked through the metal detectors, was pat-searched by a female officer and then retrieved her belongings. The mood was quiet, the small crowd orderly and compliant. She joined yet another line and eventually handed in her ID to the duty officer who gave her a slip of paper with the number of the table where she'd meet Grissom.

As she sat in the waiting room and then later at her table in the visitation room, she felt both nervous and excited. When Grissom finally came in, he was looking as rough as she'd imagined he would, and she marvelled at the difference twenty-four hours made. It was clear that he'd had a bad night, and she knew it wasn't solely because he was worried about his mother. She plastered on her brightest, most cheerful smile, a smile he returned when their eyes met, but his lacked the intensity and sparkle of the previous day.

As he covered the distance to her, he scanned his eyes around the room, then looked over his shoulder, as if searching for someone. He looked restless and guarded now, watchful, and she wondered if something had happened behind the scenes. Like the previous day, she stood when he reached her side and sneaked in a kiss before she wrapped her arms tightly around him. He returned the embrace with as much intensity, but she could feel how tense he was.

When they pulled apart, Grissom moved to sit down, but not before he'd glanced over his right shoulder again. Frowning, Sara looked over in that direction but, apart from visitors and inmates greeting each other and then the vending machines further back, she couldn't see anything of particular interest. Giving her head a shake, she refocused and gave him another bright smile.

"I got some good news," she said without preamble, sitting down across from him. "I got a long text from Betty this morning and she says she's over the worst of it now. Still feeling a little weak and achy, but she's up and about and her appetite's back."

"Oh, that's good news," he said, brightening up suddenly, his relief evident.

"Didn't you…didn't you get an email from her last night?"

"I—I didn't have time to check. I'm sorry."

Sara didn't quite manage to hide her surprise at the comment, but when he failed to elaborate she opted not to ask why. She imagined it had to do with Mr Martinez's letter, and she wondered whether he'd read it. "We texted back and forth for a long while last night," she said instead, keeping her tone light and cheery. "She sends her love and wishes she could be here. Says she'll arrange to see you when you're at your new facility."

He smiled. "You told her then."

She laughed. "Of course I did. How could I not tell her! I don't get to spread all that much joy around normally."

"Oh, you do," Grissom remarked quietly, his stare intent and loving, wistful. "More than you realise."

Sara's expression softened with tenderness. She reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze, but wished for more contact. She wished they didn't have to sit across from each other like that; he was so near and yet almost out of reach. "She was so happy – your mom," she said, trying to keep the mood upbeat. "Texted a load of smiley faces."

Grissom smiled again, but his expression was still subdued. He was about to respond when a man's laughter echoed loudly, intrusively, around the room. He froze and they lapsed into silence. She was trying to think of something to say when he glanced over his shoulder again and with growing puzzlement Sara followed his eye line. An African-American man, dressed in a prison-issued uniform just like Grissom, was looking straight at them. He smiled when he saw Sara looking his way, a slow smile that spread wide, revealing a set of perfect teeth. Feeling uncomfortable at the scrutiny, Sara casually looked away and back toward Grissom, her brow rising questioningly.

"Who is he?" she asked.

"Who's who?" Grissom countered, feigning ignorance but not fooling anyone.

She held his eyes steadily. "The man over there. The one you keep looking at." Feeling the man's intent gaze on them, she gave a fake laugh. "The one who's staring at us as we speak."

"It's no one," he said in a sigh that belied his words.

"No one, huh?" She paused, waited for him to take the bait and when he didn't, "Gil?"

Again, Grissom sighed. "It's Armstrong."

Sara's ears pricked up as her expression hardened. Feeling anger rise inside her, she took a deep breath then eased a discreet look toward Armstrong. He was looking away now, busy talking and laughing with his female visitor. He was so tall and broad that he dwarfed the table; even if he'd tried Grissom would have been no match.

"I can't believe it," she said, through gritted teeth.

"Leave it, Sara, will you?"

"Did he say anything to you while you were waiting?" she asked, leaning forward closer to Grissom. "Is that why you're so tense?"

Grissom took in a long breath he let out even more slowly. "He didn't need to."

"But he can't hurt you anymore, right?" she went on, her anger growing.

Looking down, Grissom shook his head.

She kept her voice low, but her tone was urgent. "I can't believe you've still got to live with the guy after what he did to you. I'm going to put in a complaint."

Grissom's gaze shot up. "I'm leaving soon. What does it matter?"

She stared at him with disbelief. "Of course, it matters. The guy shouldn't be allowed to walk around the place like he owns it. "

"Please, can we not—"

"I called your attorney again on Monday."

"Sara—"

"He said he was on the case."

"Badgering him isn't going to make the system work any faster, you know that."

"Maybe not." Full of conviction when she spoke, she flicked her eyes toward Armstrong. "But he's got to be punished for what he did to you, Gil, for what I'm sure he's still doing."

"It's fine, Sara. Leave it," he said more curtly, it seemed, than he intended to, for he glanced around them uncomfortably. He was growing agitated and she took a deep breath, willing herself to reign in her indignation, her emotion. It wasn't like she could confront Armstrong now anyway. Making a scene would only result in her being kicked out and denied future visiting.

"Sorry," she said, mustering a smile. "Sorry. I didn't mean to get carried away. It's just so…" She made a frustrating sound. "You know how I get."

His expression softened with a smile. "That I do." He reached for her hand. "As I said it's not for much longer. And I promise I stay out of his way. In fact this is only the second or third time I've come across him since I got moved." He gave her fingers a strong squeeze. "So, huh, please, let's not spoil what little time we have together talking about him, all right?"

Reaching forward to cover their joined hands with her free one, she gave him a grudging smile. "All right."

He lowered his gaze briefly before he brought it back up decisively. "I read the letter," he blurted suddenly. "Last night, I—" He shrugged, and she smiled at him encouragingly. "I made myself do it."

"And what does it say?" she asked softly, when he faltered.

Grissom's shoulder rose again. "That Mr Martinez isn't doing so well – health-wise, I mean."

Sara gave a nod. "I gathered as much when I went to see him. I got a feeling that his health issues have been going on for some time, though, and are unrelated to the crash."

Her words gave him pause. "That may be the case," he said in a sigh, "but his wife's death can't have helped. I don't know why he'd bother, you know? Writing to me, I mean – twice." He kept his voice low, his words calm and measured. "The first time he thanked me for paying for the funeral. That made me feel so wretched, Sara, so much worse than I was already feeling. Didn't he know that I was the reason he had to pay for his wife's funeral in the first place?"

Sara opened her mouth, but could find no words, so she just held his hand and listened while finally he opened up to her.

Grissom chuckled uncomfortably before his eyes unexpectedly filled with tears. "This time he said I should forgive myself. That it's what Paula – that's his wife – would have wanted."

A soft smile on her lips, Sara nodded her head. "He's a good man."

He pulled his hand away and wiped a knuckle to the underside of his left eye. "He is," he said, choked up. "Certainly a better man than I could ever be if the roles were reversed."

"I know," she said, growing emotional too. She'd asked herself the question many times, but like Grissom she didn't think she would be able to forgive either if she found herself in the same situation. "And…what have you decided?" she asked, clearing her throat after a moment in silence. "Are you going to write back to him?"

Grissom paused. "Do you think I should?"

"Yes, definitely," she replied with conviction. "He reached out to you – twice; now it's your turn."

Grissom gave a long sigh.

"I think it's important that you do it," she went on cautiously. "For him, but for you too. For your peace of mind."

He pricked up his ears, and she made herself continue and say things he might not be all that comfortable hearing but that needed to be said. She'd thought about it at length the previous night, had put order to her thoughts when she'd written him the letter she wouldn't now need to mail.

"He knows what you're going through," she said, and shrugged when his gaze narrowed quizzically. "He told me so himself. He goes to a support group, Gil. He feels guilty too, for what happened. He believes that, somehow, he could have done something differently. Even prevented the crash." Grissom's gaze had taken a distant turn, but knowing he was listening she carried on. "He's reaching out to you because he knows how sorry you are for what happened. He knows you didn't mean for Paula to die. He believes, even if you don't, that it was a tragic accident."

Grissom refocused his attention on her suddenly, before he finally nodded his head.

"I think in the long term," she went on, holding his gaze steadily, "if anything were to happen to Mr Martinez and you hadn't replied, you'd find it even harder to forgive yourself."

"You're right I would." Grissom seemed to think things over for a moment. "But finding the words is not going to be easy."

"It won't. But you can do it; I know you can." She smiled encouragingly. "You'll find the words."

His expression became wistful. "I could never with you."

Her smile widened. "Maybe once, but you've made up for it since."

A smile forming on his lips, he reached for her hand again. "I love you."

Laughing, she gave her head a shake at how obvious he was being. Her laughter faded and they stared at each other solemnly for a while. She was glad he'd begun to open up and she hoped that talking through his anguish over the letter with her had helped put Mr Martinez's words into context. He'd need more time, but she knew that eventually he'd do the right thing as far as Mr Martinez was concerned. "You're going to be okay?" she then asked.

He gave her a nod. "Thank you."

Her smile returned, and she laughed. "Talking of love," she said, dipping her voice to a whisper. "I had a dream the other night."

His gaze narrowed. "A dream?"

She raised her brow suggestively.

His eyes widened as a faint flush crept into his cheeks. "Oh, that kind of dream."

Her smile broadened pleasurably. "Yes, that kind of dream." And as she told him about it, she found she was able to relax and forget about Armstrong being in the room. All noise and chatter receded into the background, and it was just them talking. She kept her voice low, her words clean, her gaze steadfast on his, and judging by the changing emotion on his face he momentarily forgot about his worries and surroundings too. Clearly he was lost for words, which didn't surprise her. Maybe he was even a little shocked by her candour and openness.

She was going into detail she wouldn't normally be comfortable speaking out loud, even with him, in the dark, or even write in a letter, but it didn't matter. They couldn't _be_ together, not physically at least, but she wanted him to know that in her head they still shared those moments. It was suddenly important to her he knew how much love and pleasure he still gave her, even when they were hundreds of miles apart. Maybe if they had done so in the past when they lived in different places, they'd have felt closer to each other and not drifted apart as they had done. When she finished he had tears in his eyes.

"Hey," she said softly. "I'm sorry. Did I go too far? Make you feel uncomfortable?"

"No," he replied in a quiet chuckle. "I'm just…being silly." He flashed a quick smile before raising his shoulder in a shrug. "It's just that…sometimes, like now, or when I read your letters, I forget where I am, I forget what I've done, and it's just you and me again. Knowing I'm in your dreams just like you are in mine, well…well—" He laughed and shook his head all at once. "There you have it." His expression sobering, he lowered his gaze and patted her hand before looking back up. "The proof that I can never find the words."

"Oh, I think you just did." Her smile trembling, she wiped at her eyes. "You're going to be fine, Gil. _We're_ going to be fine. I know you don't think so at the moment but the light at the end of the tunnel's growing bigger as we speak."

Smiling, he gave her a nod.

She shrugged. "I don't know about you but all that…activity's made me thirsty." She jerked her head toward the vending machines. From the corner of her eye, she saw that Armstrong was still there, involved in a heated discussion. "Same as yesterday?"

Glancing behind him, Grissom nodded his head.

"Don't worry," she said in a whisper, pushing to her feet. "I won't make a scene."

He smiled. "Actually," he called, as she walked away, "can I you get me a Hershey's chocolate milk and one of those cinnamon rolls you had yesterday?"

"Chocolate milk?"

He lifted a sheepish shoulder. "I doubt the coffee machine's been fixed, and I didn't go to breakfast this morning."

"I did." Sara gave him a wink and wide smile. "Stay put. I'll be right back."

As she headed to the vending machines, she walked past Armstrong's table. He and his visitor were arguing. She knew he was watching her from the corner of his eyes, but she kept her gaze forward and made herself stand up straight and proud. She trusted the system she'd worked for all her life. She trusted Grissom too and knew, even if he doubted it, that whatever little skin cells he had managed to scrape off Armstrong would yield enough DNA to convict him and have him sent back to maximum security. She was just frustrated that it was taking so long.


	27. Chapter 27

"Nice piece of ass, your wife."

Grissom tensed. The hushed voice that had spoken was definitely Armstrong's, there was no mistaking it, but the comment had come from behind and unsure whether it was addressed to him or not he made himself not react. He just kept his eyes cast downward as he stood in line with a dozen or so prisoners, hands cuffed in front of him, waiting to be taken back to his housing unit. He was feeling good, upbeat and happy after the visit, his mind still full of Sara, of her beauty and energy. She was such a breath of fresh air in this place, in his humdrum life.

It was strange, really, that it had taken his being behind bars for them to reconnect and rekindle their marriage in ways they hadn't managed in the past. They were still apart – aside from the few prison visits, they hadn't been physically together in over a year and a half – and yet he felt closer and more connected to her right then than he had in a very long time. Her vivid dream and the open way in which she'd described it had taken him by surprise but had also comforted and enlivened him in ways she couldn't understand.

She made him feel loved; no, she made him feel like he was worth loving despite what he had done. His mother did too, but it wasn't the same. With her love and forgiveness, Sara was succeeding in changing his outlook on a life that for a long time he hadn't thought worth living. She brought with her a clarity of mind that he didn't have anymore, a certain way of putting situations into perspective he was now sadly lacking. Sara was right, of course; he didn't have a choice. Writing back to Mr Martinez was the right thing to do, or he'd never find peace of mind and be able to move on.

"That's who she was, right?" Armstrong then said a little more loudly, refocusing him. "Your wife?"

His senses once again alert, Grissom frowned but didn't otherwise respond.

"Quiet, inmate!" an officer called from the back of the line.

Grissom looked up and glanced over his shoulder toward where Armstrong stood. The prisoners in front and behind him did too. Armstrong was the next man in line, and looking straight at Grissom he smiled. Realising Armstrong's words were indeed for him, Grissom's eyes darkened as his hands twitched in front of him, his fingers curling into fists, straining the cuffs restraining him.

"Turn around and face forward," another officer commanded from the front.

Grissom did.

"What's the delay?" a third officer muttered short-temperedly.

"Or maybe, you got yourself a girl on the side," Armstrong went on, his smile broadening when, eyes narrowed angrily, Grissom turned around again. He kept his voice low enough to be out of earshot of the nearest guard but not of the closest prisoners to them who continued to watch expectantly the exchange between the two men. "A bit young for an old-timer like you, isn't she?"

Grissom could hardly contain his growing anger. He knew the taunts were cheap ones, said only to get a reaction, but they were hard to ignore when Armstrong was being so obviously disrespectful to Sara in front of everyone else. Clamping his mouth shut, he worked hard at not playing into Armstrong's hands and told himself that he wouldn't have to put up with him for much longer. That either way, one of them would soon be gone. The reprimand if he were to take the bait when his transfer had only just been approved wasn't worth thinking about.

"I said, turn around!" the officer shouted, and hoping it was the end of it as far as Armstrong was concerned Grissom once again did as he was told.

"I'd do her alright," Armstrong then said under his breath before making grunting noises, and the few men around him snickered. "Wipe that superior look off her pretty face."

Grissom's resolve vanished in that instant. Damn the consequences. He whipped round, ready to pounce, and was raising his cuffed hands when an officer strode up to Armstrong from behind. Immediately dropping his stance, Grissom turned back to face the front.

"Fucking wimp," Armstrong sneered, unaware of the officer's presence. "You can't even defend your woman's—"

"I said, shut up!" the officer barked, cutting Armstrong short.

Armstrong gave the officer a congenial smile. "Just catching up with an old friend, that's all."

"Well, don't." The officer grabbed Armstrong by the shoulder, pulling him out of the line and shoving him toward the front.

As he went past, Armstrong turned to smile and wink at Grissom.

Grissom's lips curled in a smirk. "He who laughs last, laughs longest," he said quietly, holding Armstrong's gaze steadily.

His smile vanishing as his gaze narrowed questioningly and then angrily, Armstrong stopped dead in his tracks, pulling against the officer. "What the fuck's that supposed to mean?" he said loudly, menacingly.

Grissom didn't speak, he just kept his smile in place. It was the cocky grin of the bluffer who didn't have a hand but eventually won the game, of a man who was playing with fire but knew that someone like Armstrong wouldn't be able to let the slur go without reacting.

Raising his cuffed fists, Armstrong launched at Grissom. Automatically Grissom pulled back, but he didn't need to. Armstrong didn't even manage to get a punch in before he was forcefully reeled back, dropped to the ground and restrained by the officer who had been escorting him to the front. Immediately, the line of men was instructed to turn and face the wall while a thrashing Armstrong was held down. More officers intervened, one of them putting his knee on Armstrong's back to keep him in place while another held his legs, finally subduing him.

"I'm going to fucking kill you!" Armstrong shouted behind him. "You hear me?"

Grissom ignored the threat. _He who laughs last, laughs longest_ , he thought, quietly chuckling to himself as he faced the wall. Of all the comebacks, that was what had come to him. Still, it had done the trick. Armstrong's outburst would cost him a few days in the hole at the very least, which was the least he deserved after all he had done to Grissom.

When Grissom finally got back to his unit, he made his way straight to the computer room. Being Sunday afternoon, the room was busy and after patiently waiting for his turn he logged on and read both Sara's and his mother's emails. Their words brought smiles to his face and, quickly, before his time ran out he composed replies. His reply to Sara was short and spontaneous – he thanked her for visiting and once again lifting his spirits, and for helping him put order to the chaos in his head before concluding with a 'I'll call on Tuesday' and a heartfelt 'I love you more than you can ever imagine'. His reply to his mother however, took a little longer to compose but, once he took all the self-recrimination out of his original text, he was happy with the result.

After a stop at the chow hall where he ate quickly and mechanically, he headed straight to the recreation yard. He hadn't been outside in three days and the hot sun felt good on his face. Instinctively, he checked that Armstrong wasn't there, then waited his turn to borrow the boxing gloves and punching bag. He hadn't used them since before he was attacked and felt strangely exhilarated by the prospect. He hit tentatively at first, testing his body's strength, checking that his wounds had fully healed, before putting in a gentle work out.

There were times when he still missed his old cellmate acutely, and now was one of them. As he punched the bag steadily, he wondered yet again whether Manuel had adapted to his new surroundings, to his new work, whether he was keeping his head down. He wondered too whether the younger man had been able to sit his GED tests, and if so how he felt that they had gone. He hoped he would get news soon, wished he were allowed to make direct contact. He still felt connected with him somehow, responsible for him in some meaningful way. Was that what being a parent felt like, he wondered suddenly?

And as he lay in his cot that night, taking stock of his day, Grissom had a chuckle to himself. He still felt angry and aggrieved by what Armstrong had said about Sara, but he couldn't help feeling a little flattered too, proud and more than a little lucky. Yes, she was a nice piece of ass, he thought, but she was _his_ piece of ass. He couldn't wait to tell her when they next spoke. She'd be back in Vegas by then, back home. Thinking of home always sobered him. He closed his eyes and soon fell asleep, dreaming of Sara and being home with her.

The next morning, Grissom woke up upbeat and refreshed. He and Fairfax went through their early morning routine, headed to breakfast, and then when he knew Fairfax would be at work he returned to the empty cell. His evening classes aside, he missed not working. He missed the routine and physical labour, the knowledge that he'd done something worthwhile with his time, and he hoped that once he was settled at his new facility there would be a job for him there.

After a moment's hesitation, he took out Mr Martinez's letter from his locker, a pen and a clean sheet of writing paper. Before he could change his mind, he sat down at the table, put his glasses on and read the letter again, twice, thinking long and hard about what he would write in his reply. He had three hours before Fairfax returned. He told himself he wouldn't move until he had finished. Amazingly, the words came to him, honest and unbidden.

It was as if floodgates had opened, and he found himself confiding feelings and emotions he hadn't even told Sara or Dr Walker, not in full anyway. The more he wrote, the easier it became to find the words and bare his soul. His guilt was still all encompassing, he wrote, but he was learning to live with it, that with his loved ones' help it was becoming more manageable. He didn't think he could ever forgive himself for taking Paula's life, but he didn't hate himself so much anymore for doing it.

By the time he'd finished, after once again thanking Mr Martinez for reaching out to him and not condemning him, he was emotionally drained. Carefully he wrote Mr Martinez's details on the envelope, stuck a stamp to it and then read the letter again before slipping it in the envelope. He wished he could seal it, but he wasn't allowed to. He removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes, and then moved to lie down on his cot. He'd drop the letter off at the mailroom on his way to the chow hall for lunch.

Fearing repercussions after what happened to Armstrong in the visitation building, Grissom watched his back, but Armstrong's cronies seemed none the wiser and he was allowed to go about his business in relative peace. Every day he expected Armstrong to reappear, but he never did. It was as if Armstrong had just gone to see his visitor one day and then vanished into thin air **.** Dare he hope it was the case?

A week later, when he received a letter from his attorney that included a copy of the BOP's forensic report on the skin cells he'd scraped off Armstrong's leg, Grissom finally got confirmation. The relief that filled him on reading the results was sweeping, the tears that built in his eyes surprising even him. The DNA evidence against Armstrong was conclusive; his custody level had been changed and as a result he had been sent back to a maximum-security facility.

The transfer must have been immediate, for, as far as he knew, Armstrong never made it back to general population. Armstrong had to have been moved straight from solitary confinement to his new facility, in which case no one would ever know why – not straightaway anyway. People came and went when in prison; it was par for the course. Grissom burst out laughing and, remembering where he was, looked up sheepishly from the letter at the few people watching him in the mailroom.

"I just got some good news," he said, a giddy smile on his lips before turning on his heels, headed out of the door. Letter in hand, he rushed to the phones, waited not so patiently until a booth freed up and put a call through to Sara to let her know. He couldn't wait to tell her; she would be so happy, so relieved, even more so than he was. The call connected after what felt like ages, and then rang and rang before the machine finally kicked in. Swallowing back his disappointment, he listened to the sound of her cheery voice and waited for the telltale beep before speaking.

"Hi, Sara. It's me. I know it's an awkward time but—"

"Gil!" she called, breathless and panting as she picked up the phone.

"Sara, honey," he said, frowning with concern, "is everything okay?"

"Sure," she replied, laughing, "I just went for a run. I was at the door stretching when I heard the phone. And then by the time I let myself in…anyway, is everything okay with you? We only spoke yesterday. Not that I'm complaining."

"I just got some good news," he said animatedly. "Some really good news and I didn't want to tell you in an email."

"Your transfer paperwork's come through?" she asked, her excitement at the thought obvious.

"No, not yet, no. Huh." He looked at the letter in his hand. "It's about Armstrong. I just received a letter from my attorney and—"

"The DNA results are positive!" she exclaimed, almost whooping with delight.

"They are," he laughed, and then cast a quick look around him self-consciously.

"Oh, I knew it. Gil, that's great." Her voice became muffled and he knew she'd wedged the phone between her ear and shoulder. He heard her rummage about in the kitchen, opening and closing the fridge and cabinets, and he could imagine her pouring herself a glass of water. "I'm really happy for you. After everything that's happened, that's such a relief."

"It is," he said. "It is."

"Did you get my email?" she asked suddenly, her voice coming back loud and clear.

He frowned. "Which one?"

"The one I sent this afternoon."

"I—I didn't check. Why?"

"I got a letter from M today," she said excitedly.

 _M?_ Grissom's frown deepened before the penny dropped and he smiled. "What does he— _she_ say?" he corrected quickly, remembering their agreement to refer to Manuel as a female M, or rather Emm, in their correspondence and on the phone.

"She says she's doing well, and that this new place of hers is real nice. Not like the last one at all."

Grissom laughed. "I'm glad to hear it."

"She likes the landscape much better, the cooler temperatures too," Sara said, "and more surprisingly maybe the hard work."

Grissom's mind took him to Oregon, and he found himself without words as Sara talked.

"She says she aches. A lot," she went on cheerfully.

"The physical labour will do him— _her_ good."

"Beats mopping floors, that's what she says anyway."

"I bet."

"She…huh…misses her old friends," Sara went on after a beat, her tone musing.

Grissom's smile saddened, becoming melancholy. "And did… _she_ mention taking her tests?" he asked after a moment's silence.

"She did. Just to say that they got pushed back to September."

Grissom's heart sank. "That's not good. She'll have lost her momentum by then."

"She'll be fine, Gil. Says so far she's making all the right choices."

Grissom gave a nod.

"So," she said, her voice muffled, when once again he lapsed into silence, "What are you doing now?"

He frowned. "Nothing. Not until my evening class at seven." He paused. "Why?"

"Well, I was wondering…" Her voice was clear again, and he wondered what she was doing, "if I put you on speaker phone if you would…hum…I don't know…"

His frown deepened. "What?"

"Come with me while I shower."

Grissom felt a flush colour his cheeks. "Come again?"

"You got a little time, right? Come shower with me."

Grissom eased an uncomfortable look around him. "Now?"

"Well, I got to go in to work soon." Her voice was a little more distant now, shouty as to be heard, and he knew he was on speakerphone.

"We might get cut off." He heard the water being turned on in the shower, and closing his eyes he tried to imagine her there, tried to picture himself there with her. "Are you…hum…"

"Naked?" she asked when, embarrassed, he fell silent.

"Yes," he said, in a clipped voice.

"Why, yes," she replied, laughing. "How else do you shower?"

 _With shorts on_ , he thought but didn't say. And so leaning against the booth wall with his back to the crowds and his eyes closed, he not only listened to her shower, but watched too. Until his time ran out anyway. But the image of her showering stayed with him for days afterwards.

Time stretched on at a snail's pace it seemed, as every day for three weeks he waited for mail from his case officer that never came. He still called Sara every other day, wrote and emailed. He'd sent a lot of her letters back to her too, for safe keeping, as well as most of the newspaper articles she'd sent and he'd kept, so that he wouldn't have so much to transport when he moved. He knew that for security reasons he'd only be told the evening before that the transfer was happening. It was short notice, but as long as he had enough time to let Sara know he didn't care.

He wasn't looking forward to the transfer itself, knew first-hand how slow, basic and inhumane inmate transfers were, but it was a means to an end. Hopefully it would take him to a better place – literally, but figuratively too. By the end of it, however long it took, he would be a little closer to home, a little closer to Sara, and to being a free man.

On the Tuesday morning, Grissom had just returned from breakfast when an officer came into the cell. "Grissom," he said, dumping three plastic bags on the table, "Pack your belongings. You're moving."

Grissom did a double take. "Moving? Where?" he asked. "To another unit?"

"You're catching the chain." Using a black marker, the officer began to tag the bags with Grissom's details.

"But I haven't heard from my case manager yet."

"That'd be on account of the fact that he's on sick leave." The officer looked up. "You got thirty minutes to report downstairs with your property."

"But that's not going to be long enough."

"It's going to have to be. How long does it take to empty a locker, huh?"

"What about my wife? I need to call her, let her know."

The officer moved to the door. "No can do. Phone and mail privileges are withdrawn as of right now. And remember to go to the bathroom while you still can, and don't drink anything."

Grissom let out a long despondent breath. There was no point in arguing; it wouldn't change anything. Prisoners weren't allowed to communicate at any stops along the way either, and he knew his normal privileges wouldn't be reinstated until a few days after arrival at his new facility. _His new facility_ , he thought in a scoff. He hadn't even thought to asked where he was being shipped to. He hated the fact that Sara would worry about the lack of news, but what choice did he have? She would soon work it out, wouldn't she, when she didn't hear from him?

As it was, packing up his stuff took hardly any time at all. He left his spare uniform behind as well as his bedding, pillow and towel, his library and GED teaching books. Even then, the content of his locker – all the paperwork he hadn't sent Sara, as well as the few personal items of clothing he possessed, toiletries and food and drink items – barely fitted in the plastic bags.

He paused with the pocket chess game in one hand and the desktop fan Sara had bought him in the other, hesitating only briefly before pushing the chess game in one of the bulging bags. It was the only reminder of his time with Manuel he had, aside from his memories, and he couldn't leave that behind. The fan he could always replace.

When he presented himself to the meeting point, they took his belongings and did the usual checks and body search looking for knives, drugs and other contraband, before sitting him in the bullpen, a four-by-four holding cell, to wait for the transport bus to come. He was the only prisoner to be transferred out of Beaumont Med that day.

"Do you know where they're shipping me to?" he asked the duty officer.

"Didn't they tell you?" Grissom shook his head, and the officer laughed. "Taft Correctional Institution. The low side," he said after checking his paperwork.

 _Taft,_ Grissom thought with a frown. The name rang a bell, but it was too distant to be recalled, and when he asked all he was told was that it was somewhere on the west coast.

His ankles were shackled, his wrists handcuffed, then all four limbs were chained together. The handcuffs were placed in a plastic box, which drastically limited his range of motion. The Blue Bird arrived and he was taken through a backdoor to the loading area. Even though he was on his own, four officers stood on guard, armed. His belongings were loaded onto the bus. He got on and took a seat at the front. The bus was only half-full of men looking bored and uncomfortable.

And then they were on the road, and Grissom took it all in. He stared at the passing landscape, read every road sign, cherished each passing car, pedestrian and building. They got on the I-10, headed toward Houston. He thought maybe they were headed to the airport there, but soon they merged onto the I-45 toward Dallas where they picked up three more inmates and unloaded two, and then on to Fort Worth. They'd been on the road over five hours already. Thinking of Sara made the whole process more bearable.

At Fort Worth, they all got off the bus. After a bathroom stop, they were given a packed lunch to eat – two slices of white bread, two slices of bologna and an apple. Their restraints were never taken off. After a lengthy wait in the bullpen, they got on another bus. It was only when they crossed the state line into Oklahoma that Grissom realised they were headed to the Oklahoma City Transfer Centre. A chill ran through him despite how hot it was in the bus. He'd stayed there once before, after his conviction and before he'd been found a place at Beaumont, and those six weeks had been hell.

This time, he only spent two days there; enough time to recover from the bus transit and take a trip to the library before he'd be back on the road again, for God only knew how long. He looked up where Taft was, smiling widely when he realised that his new facility was near Bakersfield in California, five hours away by car from Las Vegas. He laughed out loud, much to the bewilderment of the other library users, and wished he could tell Sara, hoped again she wasn't too worried.

Late on the Thursday evening, he was told he would be moving again in the morning, the morning being 3am. That night, he didn't sleep a wink. The Oklahoma City Transfer Centre has its own airport and, after going through the usual checks, body searches, shackling and another long wait in a bullpen, close to two hundred inmates were loaded onto an all-white federal plane headed to Los Angeles.

By the time Grissom took his place on board the Boeing 737 amongst the other men and women of all ages and colour but all wearing the same grey uniform and blank look, it was 6.30 am. He was already exhausted. And despite how uncomfortable he was, fettered and chained in the cramped seat, he fell asleep and dreamt of Sara.

He was almost there.


	28. Chapter 28

A/N: Sara mentions diesel therapy in the chapter. It's a purported form of punishment in which prisoners are shackled and then transported for days or weeks. It has been described as the cruelest aspect of being a federal inmate. It has been alleged that some inmates are deliberately sent to incorrect destinations as an exercise of diesel therapy. It is sometimes used to _break_ disruptive inmates, like gang members.

* * *

"Still no news?"

Refocusing her thoughts, Sara looked up from the cup of coffee she was nursing and shook her head. She hadn't noticed Brass arrive and wondered how long he'd been there watching her. "Nah. Nothing at all."

Brass nodded, then put the coffee pot he was holding down on the stand and joined her at the table.

"I'm worried, Jim," she then said, keeping her voice down and looking around the breakroom to make sure no one was within earshot. "It's been over two weeks without news now."

"I know." Brass gave her shoulder a warm squeeze. "But he's okay, Sara. Inmate transfers take a long time. That's just how the system works."

She knew all that; Grissom had warned her and she'd looked it up for herself too, read all the horror stories as once again she found herself lurking around various internet prison forums. What she read was heart breaking; the way inmates in transit were treated – irrespective of what they had done to find themselves behind bars – was disgusting. Chained up in the same positions for hours on end, without food or water or bathroom stops was simply inhumane. Notwithstanding the financial burden of moving prisoners across the country and more importantly maybe the emotional impact on the loved ones desperate for news.

"Well, the system sucks," she snapped, hating the self-pitying way she sounded.

"It is what it is, Sara."

"He said he'd call," she insisted quietly, almost as if talking to herself. "He said he'd let me know."

"I'm sure he would have done if he could have. The transfer was probably sprung on him too. You checked on his status?"

Sara scoffed. She knew what he was really asking. Had she checked on his status since the last time he'd asked? "It still shows him as in transit."

"Well, that's where he is."

Brass's matter-of-factness riled her. "That's not where he was last time," she argued, referring to when he'd been taken to Houston for emergency treatment.

Brass sighed. "What do you want me to say? I've already called my contact and he couldn't help, only to say that Grissom had been moved and wasn't in Beaumont anymore. You know as well as I do that it's a security risk for anyone to know where an inmate is headed before they get there. If Gil's attorney wasn't able to find out—"

"Have you heard of diesel therapy?" Sara cut in, her tone urgent, worried.

"I have," Brass said in a sigh. "Of course, I have. But Sara, that's not what's happening with Gil, alright? You got to stop torturing yourself. He's probably stuck in the transfer centre in Oklahoma City with no way of letting you know. He stayed there for three weeks last time before he was finally moved to Beaumont."

Feeling tears rise, Sara closed her eyes. She'd read that while supposedly 'in transit' some prisoners had been detained there for more than six months. She checked the BOP inmate locator on a daily basis and Grissom's status had never shown he'd sojourned there at all. And even if he had, surely he would have been allowed to call or email, wouldn't he?

"I'm sorry," Brass said, stroking his hand to her shoulder comfortingly. "I didn't mean to upset you."

Sara reopened her eyes. "You didn't upset me," she said, giving him a small, tremulous smile. "I'm just…in a state of permanent upset."

Greg walked into the breakroom at that moment, heading straight for the coffee pot but slowing down in his pace uncertainly on noticing Sara and Brass there. Sara turned her face away and quickly, surreptitiously, wiped at her eyes.

"Sorry," he said, his gaze on Sara, "I didn't mean to interrupt." He lifted his empty mug. "I'll come back later."

"It's okay." She pasted a smile on her face. "You didn't interrupt anything."

Hesitating only briefly, Greg moved to the sink and began washing his cup, just as Brass's cell rang. Startling, the captain reached for it. "Sorry," he told Sara, looking up from the lit-up screen, "but I got to take this." And then with his eyes only, "You're going to be okay?" She nodded, and standing up he connected the call. "Willis," he said into the phone as he walked out of the breakroom, "You got my results?"

Sara turned back to Greg who, his back to her, was filling his mug with coffee. She sighed, hesitating. She hated keeping him in the dark the way she was doing and, not for the first time, wondered whether she should just tell him the truth.

"You want a refill?" Greg asked, turning and lifting the coffee pot in her eye line.

Sara shook her head. "No thanks."

Greg put the pot back. After a moment's hesitation, he moved to the table and took the seat Brass had vacated before moving Brass's still half-full cup to the middle of the table. "You okay?" he asked, his voice full of concern as he took a cautious sip of his coffee.

Her smile trembling, Sara nodded her head, then averted her gaze back to her cup, still somewhat reluctant to open up.

"I'm worried about you," he then said, his voice barely a whisper.

Sara looked up and over at him and was about to feed him her usual line of "I'm fine" when he spoke again.

"Your mood's up one minute and down the next. Just like it was when…when…well, you know when," he finally said, faltering, clearly unable to refer to Grissom or their breakup by name. "You were so much happier lately and now…" With a sigh, he lifted his shoulder in a powerless shrug. "Sara, I hate to see you like this. If I didn't know better, I'd think—" he held her gaze steadily, but clamped his mouth shut, and she knew that again he'd been about to mention Grissom. "What's going on, huh? If you don't tell me, I can't help you." He smiled a little uncertainly. "And don't say women's troubles please."

The comment elicited a small smile from Sara. "It's not women's troubles." Her smile faded. "It's just that—"

"Sara!" Hodges called, startling her, breathless as he came into the room. "I got the results you wanted. And you're going to like them."

"Your cell's not working?" she countered flatly, annoyed at the interruption.

Hodges' expression darkened with surprise. "Mine is," he retorted back, clearly injured by her tone. "Yours, I'm not so sure."

Frowning, Sara felt her pockets, but her cell wasn't there. "I must have left it behind," she said, distracted by the oversight. She looked over at Greg and paused. "I'll be over in a minute," she then told Hodges, turning back toward him. He looked put out, but he took his cue nonetheless, and standing she turned back toward Greg. "You're right," she said, decision made. "I owe you an explanation."

He stared at her levelly for a moment before he finally nodded his head. "Okay."

"What are you doing after shift?" she asked him, and smiled. "Breakfast on me." Their usual diner would be too busy with law-enforcement personnel and, trying to come up with a neutral place for them to meet, she once again hesitated.

Greg read her like an open book. "8.30, at Jamms," he said, when she faltered. "And don't be late."

Sara's smile returned. "I won't be."

She felt Greg's concerned eyes follow her progress as she left the breakroom, headed to Hodges' lab. She wasn't sure how she'd go about telling him, wasn't looking forward to the conversation at all. She knew how hurt he would be that she'd kept him in the dark for this long, as if somehow he wasn't worthy of her trust, but just like with Nick, DB and Brass, her secret would be safe with him. How he would react to knowing Grissom was in prison was another matter, though. She didn't see Greg's look of annoyance when he picked up not only her dirty cup as well as his own, but Brass's too.

"So, David, my results?" Sara asked, striding into the Trace lab.

"They're just there," Hodges replied, barely looking up from his work as he waved toward an in-tray at the end of the workstation.

His curt tone and behaviour gave Sara pause, but not enough that she should apologise for being short with him earlier. She took the printout and scanned her eyes over the results, a wide smile forming, momentarily replacing her perpetual frown, as she thought about the implications for her case.

"Thanks, David," she said without looking up, knowing he was watching her from the corner of his eyes. That was the closest he'd get to an apology.

"I knew you'd be pleased," he said, his tone softer now. "Which is why I texted you in the first place."

She looked up. "Thanks."

He gave her a formal nod of acknowledgement. And then a little tentatively as he stared at his feet, "Is everything alright with you?"

Her frown returned. "Sure."

"It's just that…you're looking a little distracted lately."

"Well, that'll be on account of the fact that I misplaced my cell, wouldn't it?"

Hodges' smile stiffened a little. He nodded his head again, but looked unconvinced. "Okay."

She was about to leave when she thought better of it. There was something in the tech's demeanour that puzzled her. It was as if he knew something he was desperate to tell her but wasn't sure if he should. It wasn't the first time she felt that way with him either. "David? What is it?" she asked, somewhat gruffly.

"What is what?" he retorted, making a poor show of looking confused.

Sara sighed, then shook her head impatiently. "I haven't got time to play games." She raised the printout in his eye line. "Thanks for putting a rush on these."

He was watching her closely again. "Anytime."

She was at the lab's threshold when he called her name. Pausing, she turned back toward him.

"We've known each other, what? Over ten years?" he asked.

Her frown deepening with confusion, Sara nodded her head. "Why?"

He raised his shoulder. "You know you can come to me, right? If you need to talk? Or…whatever."

Sara gave her head a shake. His concern, instead of being touching, annoyed her. "Thanks, David. I'll keep it in mind."

Greg's car was already there when Sara pulled up in the lot. When she stepped into the restaurant, she found him sitting at a table in the corner away from the window, staring unseeingly at his cup. She covered the distance quickly and gently tapped his shoulder in greeting, smiling when he turned toward her. His expression was serious, almost sad, and she hated that she was the cause of it. A waitress approached, coffeepot in hand, as soon as Sara sat down. She raised the pot in Sara's eyeline but Sara declined.

"Can I just have an orange juice please?" And then looking at Greg, "You ordered already?"

"No. I was waiting for you." He was watching her closely.

The waitress left them to peruse the menu, and Sara settled for eggs Benedict and the restaurant's signature Pot of Bread while Greg chose a chicken BLT green waffle. She was pleased to see that however worried he was he hadn't lost his appetite. When the waitress returned with Sara's orange juice, they placed their order then fell in an awkward silence. He was clearly waiting for her to initiate the conversation but unsure how to she was stalling. She picked up her juice and took a small sip, tried to think of the right words and the best way to tell him.

"So, what's going on?" he prompted, his voice a mixture of concern and interest, when the silence stretched between them.

She opened her mouth, only to shut it again, and set her drink down on the table.

Looking anxious, he frowned. "Sara? What is it?" He dropped his gaze and swallowed. "Are you sick?" He looked up again. "Is that it?" His words were a mere whisper.

"No," she replied, reaching for his hand on the table and gripping it. "I'm not sick." She laughed in surprise. Or was it relief? "Is that what you've been thinking?"

Greg shrugged. "Well, I can only think of two reasons for the way you've been behaving."

"The way I've been behaving?"

"You know. I mean, there's the mood swings, but you've been having time off work too, at regular intervals."

Sara's brow rose.

"Not long enough for a vacation, but long enough to get me thinking."

"And what were you thinking?" she asked, amused now.

He gave his head a shake. "I'd rather not say. I don't want to tempt fate or anything."

Sara's expression sobered. "You said _two_ reasons."

Greg averted his eyes to his cup uncomfortably.

"Greg?"

He looked up again, meeting her gaze dead on. "Well, it was either that or—" he paused and she could tell from the look in his eyes that Grissom's name was at the tip of his tongue but that he couldn't make himself say it.

She let out a long breath and picked up her juice, took a long drink of it. Greg watched her all the while and she knew there was no delaying the inevitable now. "It's Gil," she confirmed, putting her drink down, and looked at him straight in the eye.

Greg's face darkened with anger, his jaw twitched, but he remained silent.

She shrugged. "He's in prison."

Greg's eyes widened as his hand came up to cover his mouth. "What?" he exclaimed, visibly shocked at the news.

"He's in prison," she made herself say again, quietly, matter-of-factly, as though it didn't hurt so much thinking about him in such a place.

He was looking bewildered now. "But how? Why? What happened?"

"He…he killed someone – a woman – it was a car accident but she died and…" Her words trailing off, she blinking at the tears in her eyes, then shrugged and scratched at her forehead nervously.

"But surely if it was an accident then—"

She lifted her hand, stopping him in his tracks. "He was working in Texas when it happened. The laws are different there, tougher. Anyways, he got convicted – second-degree felony."

"Shit."

"Yeah," she concurred, a small, still incredulous smile flitting across her face. "You know Gil. He didn't try to—he pleaded guilty." Again, she wiped at her eyes. "And that was it."

Lowering his gaze, Greg gave a slow nod of the head. It was clear that he was struggling to wrap his head around it all. "When—" He looked up suddenly. "When did it happen?"

"A little over eighteen months ago," she replied. "Just before Christmas."

Greg's eyes narrowed, becoming distant, and she knew what he was putting it all together.

"That's right," she said, smiling uneasily. "A couple of months before he ended our marriage."

The waitress walked up to them at that moment, their order in hand, and falling silent they pulled back from the table while she set the plates down in front of them.

"I haven't known long," Sara went on, when having bid them a good breakfast the waitress disappeared. "In case you were wondering."

Greg flashed her an uncomfortable smile. "Did…did Grissom tell you?"

Her head was shaking. "No. I found out by chance actually." Remembering the circumstances, she smiled sadly and shook her head again. She wasn't ready to talk about that just yet. "Come on," she coaxed. "Eat. It's getting cold."

"Only if you do," Greg replied.

Smiling, Sara picked up her knife and fork and cut into her eggs, while clearly subdued Greg slowly followed suit.

"You seem very calm," he remarked, bringing a forkful of waffle to his mouth.

"Talking to you is helping." Pausing, she put her cutlery down. "You're not angry?"

He gave her warm smile. "I'm not angry. I'm just sorry I couldn't be there for you, that's all."

"I know, and I'm sorry. It was just…it came as such a shock. And I was angry at Gil for keeping me in the dark for so long, and at the world…" Feeling herself become emotional again, she paused.

"Hey," he said, reaching for her hand on the table when she faltered. "It's alright. You're telling me now, aren't you?" He gave her hand a squeeze.

Smiling through her pain, she squeezed his hand back. "Thanks, Greg. You're a good friend."

"So are you. So quit worrying. Come on," he then said, his turn to be coaxing now. "Eat or I can't."

Sara picked up her knife and fork and gingerly began eating.

"And Grissom, how is he?" Greg asked, his mouth full. "It must be hell for him."

She nodded. "He's doing okay. He's doing better. Well, he was anyway, but I haven't heard from him in two weeks so I don't know. Hence the low mood." She gave a wan smile and a shrug. "He's being moved to another facility."

Greg gave a solemn nod. "Where is he headed?"

"That's the thing; I don't know. A little closer to home was the plan, you know, to make it easier for his mother to visit, but…" again she shrugged and sighed, "I don't know what's happening."

Greg put more food into his mouth. "You guys been in touch much then." He tried for a casual tone, but didn't quite pull it off.

Her smile returning, Sara nodded her head. "The time off work?" she said, quoting his words. "At regular intervals? I was in Texas, visiting him. We write to each other too, and email. He calls."

Greg's brow rose quizzically, but unsure how open to be this time she lowered her gaze hesitantly, self-consciously.

"You know what, Sara?" he said. "You don't have to tell me." She looked up at him, and he smiled. "It's none of my business."

"It's not a secret. Well, it is," she amended with a smile, and then with a shrug, "You know what I mean. But yeah. We're…trying to work things out."

Greg watched her closely for a moment before he nodded his head in understanding. "Is that what you want?" he then asked. "For the two of you to be working things out?"

Sara's nod was confident. "Definitely."

They shared a long look and smile, and then resumed eating, the silence that built between them now more companionable than awkward.

"Nick knows, doesn't he?" Greg said after he'd finished his meal.

Sara hesitated before she finally nodded her head. "He does."

Greg's gaze averted uncomfortably. "I figured as much."

"I didn't tell him," she went on, noticing how downcast Greg looked suddenly, "if that's what you're thinking. He found out for himself." She gave a mirthless laugh. "Actually, he was the one who found out and told me."

Greg's eyes narrowed in a question, and Sara shrugged.

"You remember the Dawson case back in April? The liquor store robbery that turned into a hit and run? You know," she went on when Greg's frown intensified, "the kid who stole his brother's girlfriend's father's Corvette. You and Nick worked the case together?"

Greg's expression softened with a smile of recollection. "I remember." His frown returned. "What's the case got to do with Gil?"

Realising that she owed him the complete truth, she went on to tell him everything in detail, however painful some of it was. How Mandy had lifted a partial fingerprint from the nametag's plastic window on the bag used for the robbery; how that partial turned out to be from Grissom's thumb because low and behold that bag had once belonged to him; how when Mandy found out Grissom was in the system – and not just as former law-enforcement – she told Nick who then told her. Throughout the account, Greg looked suitably rapt and only spoke single words to express dismay and disbelief.

"You couldn't make this stuff up if you tried."

Sara scoffed. "Tell me about it."

Sobering, Greg nodded his head. "And Brass?"

She gave a sad smile. "He knew from the start, but Gil swore him to secrecy."

Greg winced. "Ouch. That must have hurt."

"Yeah, it did." Her shoulder lifted. "I've made peace with that too."

"So," Greg said, when silence once again built between them. "You said you haven't heard from him in two weeks?"

Sara shook her head. "And it's driving me crazy."

"Inmates transfers can take a long time. Especially cross-country."

"I know."

Greg gave her a comforting smile. "How long has he got left?"

"About ten months. Less if he gets parole."

Greg gave a long nod of the head. "'The course of true love never did run smooth'," he quoted musingly, and refocused on her. "Because that's what it is, isn't it? Between you and Gil?"

Too stunned for words, she smiled and gave a nod of the head in reply. Her smile trembling, she reached out her hand to him and he gripped it warmly.

"I don't know about you, but I need a drink," he said, brightening up suddenly. "Let's go and grab a beer."

Sara made a face. "Oh, I don't know, Greg. I got things to do." A mailbox to check, she thought but didn't say.

"Come on," he coaxed, his smile teasing. "Don't blow me off. How long has it been, huh?" He batted his eyelashes at her. "Pretty please?"

Her smile of assent was grudging. "All right. One beer."

When Sara got home an hour later, she felt much better, less tense and antsy, than she had in days. She'd forgotten how good and undemanding a friend Greg was, how fun and entertaining too. She was glad she'd finally told him the truth, relieved too by his reaction and the fact that she'd have his support in the long months ahead before Grissom was finally released. She and Grissom hadn't talked about the future much, about life after prison and rehabilitation, but they'd made so much progress already and in such little time.

There was no mail from Grissom, but the light was flashing on her answerphone. Her heartbeat quickened in anticipation. Kicking herself for going out with Greg when Grissom might have called, she quickly pressed play and waited with bated breath, only for her mother's voice to fill the silence in the room. Swallowing back her disappointment, Sara ended the recording, lifted the receiver off the cradle and headed to the bedroom dialled her mother's number. They'd been talking for a couple of minutes when Sara heard the tell-tale single beep of a second call waiting.

"Mom, I got to go," she said, once again breathless with anticipation. "I'll call you back, okay?"

Before her mother had time to respond, Sara had already connected to the second call.

"Hello?"

"Honey, it's me."

Sara's eyes closed as they filled with tears.

The wave of relief that washed over her on finally hearing Grissom's voice was so powerful that it nearly knocked her off her feet.


	29. Chapter 29

"Hello?"

Relief flooded Grissom when Sara finally picked up. "Honey, it's me," he almost shouted, pressing two fingers to the ear not stuck to the receiver to drown out the background noise.

"Gil!" she said in a gasp after what seemed like ages.

Her voice had never sounded so sweet as right then, and bowing his head away from the other inmates using the phones he closed his eyes to hide his tears.

"Oh, Gil, it's so good to hear your voice."

"It's good to hear yours too," he said in a quiet whisper.

"How are you?" she went on excitedly, but clearly choked up. " _Where_ are you?"

"Well," he laughed, "would you believe it if I said I was in California?"

"What?"

The disbelief in her voice made him laugh harder. "I'm in the FCI just outside Taft, 45 miles from Bakersfield."

"Bakersfield?" she repeated, clearly incredulous. "But that's just…"

"Five hours away, I know," he said, smiling widely. "I couldn't believe it when I found out."

"Oh, my God, Gil, that's great. Wait till Betty finds out. She's going to be thrilled."

"I know."

"How are you?" she asked again, her tone earnest.

"I'm okay. I'm fine now. It was a long trip, but…I'm here now. How about you?"

"Me?" she croaked, and laughed. "I'm happy."

A smile broke across his tired face. "I'm happy too."

He looked over his shoulder at the wall clock to check the time; he was allowed 300 minutes' worth of phone calls every month and he'd worked out that if he limited each call to twenty-five minutes he would be able to call home on average three times a week.

"I'm sorry I couldn't warn you of the transfer," he went on. "My case officer at Beaumont was sick and I was only given a half-hour notice to pack my things before I had to report to the duty officer."

"It's okay," she cut in softly. "It's just…this may have been the longest two weeks of my life."

"For me too," he said, falling silent. He thought about telling her the details of the trip but they didn't have long and he didn't want to waste precious minutes repeating what he'd written in his letter. "I've been here five days already," he continued, "but because of the weekend I only got to meet with my new counsellor yesterday. Anyway, here am I now, able to call at last, all privileges fully reinstated. I'm headed to the computer room next and I'll email Mom. I've sent you both letters with visitation forms you'll need to fill in and send back to my counsellor ASAP."

"I'll text her. Tell her the good news and to check her email. We'll fill in the forms as soon as we get them. I'll let Brass know you resurfaced too."

Her turn of phrase made him smile. "Thank you."

"Your mother's desperate to come see you. And so am I."

"I know," he said, emotional at the thought. "I can't wait to see you both. Could be as early as the weekend after next provided the paperwork doesn't get delayed."

"I'll pencil it in then," she said, giggling.

Her good mood lifted his spirits. "How's my mother?" he asked, the happy smile lingering on his face.

Sara sighed. "She's doing okay. This flu thing really knocked her sideways, but she's getting there. She's been worried about the lack of news too, you know, but…overall I think she's doing okay. We spent Saturday afternoon together actually. My mother came too."

He registered a look of surprise. "Oh? And how did _that_ go?"

"It was fine," she laughed. "I took them to the farmer's market at Floyd Lamb Park. Then we took a slow wander around the lake. Had ice cream."

A wistful smile formed on his lips at the image her words conjured. "That sounds nice."

"It was."

"And didn't your mother ask questions?" he asked warily. As far as he knew Laura didn't know where he was.

"She's far too self-involved. And it helped she doesn't sign. She thinks you're working away again and I didn't put her right." She paused. "I wish you could have been there with us. I know your mother did too."

"I wish I could have been there too," he said with a heavy heart, and found that it was true, which gave him pause.

"I'm sorry," she went on in a sigh when silence built between them. "I didn't mean to make you sad."

"You didn't," he said quickly, reassuringly.

"Anyways, Jim said you probably got stuck in Oklahoma City which is why the transfer took so long."

"I was there for a couple of days. Then I spent three days in The Metropolitan Detention Centre in LA before they moved me here. I tried several times but they wouldn't allow me to call, and I didn't have any of my stuff to write."

"It doesn't matter now," she said. "All that matters is that you made it safely." She paused in her tracks suddenly, and he frowned. "You're not…are you worried you might, you know—"

"Get recognised?"

"Yeah."

"I am. I was, especially in LA, but…" he sighed, "There isn't much I can do about it. And to be honest I'm happy to be so close to you and Mom." He cast his eyes down. He was about to say that he worried that Betty's health would take a turn for the worst and she might die before his release but thought better of it. "Besides," he went on instead, "The majority of men here are here for immigration issues, or drugs, fraud and other white-collar crimes. Very few inmates are here for violent crimes, which was my bread and butter, and if they are they're at the end of a long sentence." An officer's loud shout came from behind him, and he turned.

"What's the place like?" she asked, refocusing him.

He leaned a little closer to the handset. "It's—It's very different. Well, not the food – that's bad everywhere – or the barren landscape. But it's a lot more relaxed than Beaumont was with a lot more freedom of movement. The facilities aren't bad either. We wear T-shirts and sweat pants, shorts in our downtime or at night if we want." Looking down at himself, he chuckled uneasily; he looked like he was dressed for the gym. "It's cleaner too, with air-conditioning everywhere."

"No more need for the fan then."

He winced. "About that. I had to leave it behind when I left Beaumont. I didn't have enough space to take everything. Call it a leaving present for Fairfax – if they allowed him to keep it, of course."

"What's your new cellmate like then?"

He chuckled. "Cellmates, you mean, in the plural. I'm in a dorm with seventy-nine other men, Sara. I almost miss my old two-man cell."

"How come?"

"It's open-plan and noisy all the time. A good noisy, I guess, not shouts and arguments like before, well not generally, just people talking loudly over everyone else just to get heard. We bunk in twos and each pair gets a low-walled cubicle with built-in desks and lockers, which allows a little privacy. Each dorm has their own showers and bathrooms too."

"Sounds just like college," she said, her voice muffled.

He laughed. "I'm going to buy myself a radio and some headphones. Everyone's got them. Seems the only way to get any peace."

"There should be plenty of money in your account."

He paused. He didn't like not earning his own money and having to solely depend on Sara, but hopefully it wouldn't be for much longer. "Thanks."

"What about work?" she asked, seemingly reading his mind.

He sighed. "I haven't got an assignment yet. That's going to take a little time. I asked my counsellor for something outdoors but, you know, I'll take what they give me."

"You checked out the library yet?"

"Been there once. Got a couple of books out. They already got their quotas of volunteers. Don't need any teachers either. There don't seem to be a shortage of educated inmates here." He sighed. Even in his lowest times, he'd always had some purpose in Beaumont, a status of sort, as a teacher and librarian, or helping other inmates with their schoolwork and legal paperwork. He had a feeling that things would be different here. "I just need to…get busy again. Do something worthwhile with my time." He laughed sadly at the irony of his words.

"Something'll come up," she said cheerfully.

"Yeah." He gave his head a shake to dispel the melancholy. "But enough talking about me, what else have you been up to?"

"Work mainly. I went out to breakfast with Greg this morning actually. We went to Jamms on South Rainbow. You remember it? I hadn't been there in years."

He smiled; he remembered it well. As one of the restaurants they'd felt relatively safe frequenting when their relationship had still been a secret from everyone, Jamms held happy memories. "That's a little off the beaten path, isn't it?"

There was a pause. "We―we wanted to go somewhere quiet. Somewhere we could talk," Sara went on hesitantly.

He frowned. "Everything alright with Greg?"

"Oh, he's fine. He's fine." She let out a long breath."He was just…being a good friend, that's all."

Her words gave him pause, and he understood all that she'd left unsaid. "He knows, doesn't he," he said, finding that actually he didn't mind as much as he thought he would. He knew how worried she would have been at the lack of news; how her friends' support was vital to her wellbeing, and truth be told he was glad she had it.

"He does," she confirmed after a beat in silence. "I told him everything this morning. He thought I was sick and I couldn't lie to him." She paused again, and he could imagine she was waiting for him to react, maybe even bracing herself for his anger.

He hated that she had to lie in order to keep the truth from everyone; her mother first, now one of her closest friend. He hated that she couldn't be open and let everyone know that they were a couple again without betraying his whereabouts and what he had done. He knew his darkest secret wouldn't remain secret for ever, that it was only a matter of time before he was found out, but for everyone's sake he hoped that that would happen after his release. He figured it would be easier to tell people then, certainly easier for Sara to cope if he was there to support her. And if he was totally honest with himself, it would be much easier for him too if he had her support.

"Gil, you still there?" she asked when he kept silent. "Are you angry?"

"No," he said finally. "I'm not angry. I was just thinking. Greg's your friend, and I'm glad you've got his support. Nick's too." He took in and let out a long breath. "How―How did he take it?"

"He surprised me actually," she said musingly, and went on to tell him how intuitive and non-judgmental Greg had been.

All too soon, the twenty-five minutes were up and he explained to Sara the new phone rules and that he'd have to be disciplined if they wanted to be able to chat regularly. "I'll call again in a couple of days," he finally promised, once again filled with sadness.

"Okay."

"What are you doing now?"

"I'm headed to the shower," she said matter-of-factly. "You want to come?"

He laughed. "Next time."

"It's a date."

"I love you."

"I love you too," she said. "Oh, and Gil? Look after yourself, alright? You're on the home stretch now."

"You look after yourself too."

And as slowly he pressed his fingers to the hook, disconnecting the call, Grissom let out a long breath. He thought about her words, about being on the home stretch. He had about ten months left, hopefully less with parole, and he hoped those ten months would go quickly. He lowered the receiver from his ear and looked at it, almost as if he could see Sara going about her business at home through it, before hanging it up and turning away.

After emailing both Brass and his mother, he took a wander to the recreation yard, headed toward the open space and started walking around the softball field. At that time of day, most inmates were at work and he almost had the place to himself. It promised to be a particularly hot day, but he could stand the heat better here. It wasn't hot and humid like in Texas, but more like back home. After all this time travelling, cooped up in buses, bull pens and detention centres, it was nice to be outdoors again and free to move about without restraints. It was nice too not to have to look over his shoulder anymore, checking for Armstrong or his cronies.

And as he walked and walked and walked round in diamond-shaped circles, he looked all around him, familiarising himself with the layout of the place, the new landscape and what he could see of the dry grassy hills over the double-fence. He looked skyward and used the sun to orientate himself so he faced east and Las Vegas. Thinking he was almost within walking distance from home, he chuckled and shook his head. He'd heard of inmates walking out of minimum-security camps, but the double-fence around the perimeter would make that hard.

Ten months, he thought again, the home stretch. Ten months and he would be let out into the world again. He didn't know how he'd got to that point in time already and he wasn't sure how he felt about it either, but there it was. Being in prison meant that he was being punished for what he'd done, but would another ten months be enough punishment? Would a life sentence be enough punishment, he wondered then? He felt so far removed from Texas here, as if by leaving he'd turned a corner. He could look back, but whether he wanted to or not he was moving on. Would the physical distance between him and his crime make it easier for him to cope with his guilt and shame, he wondered then? Was that what he wanted?

After lunch, when it was too hot to be outside, he took the books he'd borrowed and already read back to the library. He waited in line and returned the books to the inmate who was in essence doing his old job, then headed for the open stacks. The library, although smaller, was a lot busier that the one in Beaumont ever got, with inmates milling about near the shelves or sitting at the few tables clustered in the middle of the room, reading, working or talking quietly.

After putting his glasses on, he walked along the rows, scanning the shelves until he reached the newspaper section. There he hesitated briefly before picking up the top one of the first pile. It was a two-week old copy of a local paper, hardly fresh news, but the front headline caught his eye nevertheless. The newsprint felt foreign in his hands and he realised he hadn't touched a newspaper – notwithstanding the articles Sara sent him – or read the news at all in the long months since his arrest. Cutting himself off from the outside world, and what went on there, had been part of his penance too – until Sara.

Without thinking, he took the newspaper to a nearby table, sat down on the only free seat around it and began to read about how a white police officer in Ferguson, Missouri, had fatally shot an unarmed black teenager, triggering riots and looting across the St. Louis suburbs. He was half-way through the article when the man next to him spoke.

"Do I know you from somewhere?"

Frowning, Grissom glanced up from the paper. "I don't think so," he said somewhat dismissively.

"We haven't met before?" the man insisted, when Grissom turned his attention back to the article.

Wary, Grissom looked up again and this time took a moment to study the man that was openly watching him **.** Of a similar age to Grissom, he wore the same prison uniform and a pair of round glasses that looked too small for his face but gave him a curiously innocent expression. His large brown eyes sparkled with intelligence and something else Grissom couldn't quite define. He didn't think he'd ever met the guy before, but that didn't necessarily mean that the man didn't know _him_.

Was it the moment when his identity got exposed, he wondered suddenly? Grissom contemplated getting up and walking away, but what would that achieve? Where could he hide? If anything, it would raise suspicion and more interest. When he glanced at the work in front of the man, he saw law books and official prison documents. A lawyer, he thought, or someone who knew enough of the law to qualify as a jailhouse lawyer. Could their path have crossed after all?

A friendly smile breaking across his face, the man stuck out his hand. "I'm Mitch. Mitchell Baumstein."

Hesitantly raising his, Grissom shook Mitch's hand while he racked his brain, repeating the guy's name in his mind as if trying to locate a distant memory. "Gil," he finally said, coming up blank, "Gil Grissom."

"The name doesn't ring a bell," Mitch said, "but you look ever so familiar."

The corner of Grissom's lip lifted wryly. "I guess I have a common face."

Mitch gave an easy shrug, then pushed his glasses up his nose. "Anyways, I haven't seen you here before so you must be new."

"Got shipped five days ago," Grissom said quietly so as not to be overheard.

"Been here ten months. It's not Club Fed as they like to call it on the outside, but it could be worse. Relatively safe too, provided you stay away from the female COs. A lot of competition in a place like this." Mitch waggled his brow suggestively. "If you know what I mean."

"Okay," Grissom said, slightly bemused. Did he look the type of man that would enter into an illegal tryst with a female officer? And for what? A few favours?

"You play chess?" Mitch asked before Grissom could turn back to his article.

Grissom frowned. "I do," he replied a little hesitantly, surprised by the sudden change of tack.

"I thought you might. There's a tournament this coming Saturday after lunch in the dayroom. There's a sign-up sheet on the notice board, if you're interested."

Grissom pondered his reply before he finally nodded his head. It wasn't like he had anything better to do. They'd had basketball and softball matches at Beaumont, but he'd never taken part. But chess? "Why not?" he said, voicing his thought.

Mitch smiled widely. "That's the spirit. If you got a chessboard, bring it. We're always short."

Grissom registered a look of surprise. How big could the tournament be, he wondered? "Sure," he said, and then as an afterthought, "Thanks." Thinking the conversation over, he turned back to his article, only for Mitch to speak again.

"So," he said, "How long you got left?"

Mitch's forthright, rather intrusive nature instead of grating as it normally would, amused him. Maybe it was because, aside from his conversation with Sara that morning and the one with his new counsellor the previous day, he hadn't had any meaningful interaction with anyone in two weeks. "Ten months," he said. "Give or take." He was going to leave it at that when curiosity got the better of him. "You?"

"Three years, but at the rate I'm going it'll be longer than that."

Grissom's brow rose in surprise.

"I got anger management issues," Mitch explained. "They keep adding to my sentence. Got me here from the camp too."

Grissom regarded Mitch with newfound interest. The man didn't look like he could hurt or overpower anyone. "Should I be worried?" he asked, his lip curling in a smile.

Mitch laughed. "I tend to take my frustrations out on the fittings and furnishings rather than the people. They don't hit back."

Grissom couldn't help chuckle at Mitch's words. Again, he returned his attention to the article.

"Your wife stuck by you then?" Mitch went on, his voice losing all trace of levity.

Grissom turned toward Mitch just as the latter looked up from staring at Grissom's left hand. "Yeah. She did," he replied quietly, his gaze instinctively dropping to his wedding band.

Mitch nodded his head knowingly. "Mine didn't. First chance she got, she filed for divorce. That was ten years ago."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Grissom said, suddenly uncomfortable by the change of mood and topic.

Mitch nodded again. His mood was much darker suddenly. "I don't mind so much, you know, losing the wife. But the kids? The kids I miss. You got kids?"

Grissom shook his head.

"I got two." Mitch gave a sad smile, then once again pushed his glasses up his nose. "A boy and a girl, 17 and 14 now, they never come to see me."

"Maybe it's too far for them to travel."

Mitch scoffed. "Is it too far to write too?"

Grissom didn't have an answer to that, so he kept silent. His eyes unwittingly flicked back to his article but Mitch wasn't finished.

"They're ashamed. A father in prison. A failure." He gave a mirthless laugh. "They don't know me anymore, and truth be told I don't think I know them either. Hell, I'd probably wouldn't recognise them if we passed each other in the street. I got no one but myself to blame reall—" An inmate walked over to the pair and stopping dead in his tracks Mitch turned to him. "Hey, Carver," he said, his easy smile returning just like that, "meet Gil Grissom. He's new here." And then turning to Grissom, "Gil. This is Jim Carver."

Carver gave Grissom a cursory nod but before Grissom could nod back he'd turned back to Mitch. "I finally got the paperwork back," Carver said. "I think I've filled it in correctly, but can you take a look at it for me, make sure everything is alright?"

Mitch winced. "I'm a little busy at the moment," he said, indicating the documents and books spread out in front of him on the table. "Why don't you ask Polowski?" He turned to Grissom, explaining, "Polowski's another jailhouse lawyer."

Grissom's brow rose at this titbit of information.

"He says he can't do it before next week," Carver said, "that he's got his own appeal to prepare. And by then it'll be too late. Please, Mitch."

Mitch made a face.

"Maybe I can help," Grissom said, before he could think of the consequences.

Carver turned toward him with hope. "You're a lawyer?"

"No. But I know the law." That had come out automatically, causing Mitch to frown with interest.

Carver didn't miss a beat and smiling he held out an official looking envelope, which Grissom gingerly accepted. "I'll pay you the current rate."

"I don't want payment," Grissom said.

"Wow," Mitch interjected, waving his hands in the negative, "Slow down. Of course you're going to take payment." And then to carver, "He's going to take payment."

Carver thrust out his hand at Grissom and they shook on the deal.

"There's plenty enough work for all of us," Mitch said when Carver left. "But the system only works if we're consistent. Everyone operates the same rate – or they'd better had. That way there's no arguments."

New facility, new rules he'd have to get used too, he thought. He also got the feeling that Mitch was trying a little too hard to make an impression, and he suspected that the guy's outwardly affable nature hid a darker side that he had yet to witness, one that had probably landed him in prison in the first place. "So what's the currency here? Macks? Stamps?"

Mitch laughed. "Ramen noodles."

"Ramen," he repeated, scoffing in disbelief. Well, that explained why Mitch looked like he never went hungry. "Are there a lot of…lawyers locked up here then?"

"More than your fair share. And not all as crooked as me."


	30. Chapter 30

Stifling a yawn, Sara stopped outside DB's office. Through the open door, she could see her supervisor bent over his desk, reviewing a file. She was raising her hand to knock when she paused, a wistful smile forming on her tired face when, in her mind's eye, DB's body morphed into that of Grissom's. How many times had she knocked on Grissom's open door at the end of shift and found him similarly engrossed? Even though it had been close to five years since he'd left the lab and vacated the very desk DB was sitting at she still felt his presence there, missed it acutely, especially it seemed when she least expected it.

"I thought you'd already left," DB said softly, drawing her out of her daydream.

Her smile broadened. "I'm about to. I—I just wanted to let you know that I've finished processing the Ford but that it's still in the garage."

DB nodded, then removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. He looked as tired as she felt. "Ugly business what happened."

"Yeah."

DB put his glasses back on and watched her closely. "You want to talk about it?"

Sara appreciated DB's concern, but it wasn't necessary. Sure, the case had caught her unawares. It was a run-of-the-mill hit and run, similar to hundreds she'd investigated in the past, but the similarities between it and the crash Grissom had caused had brought about feelings and emotions she hadn't been expecting and which evidently hadn't escaped DB's notice. Except the nature of the crash was where the similarities ended, because unlike Grissom the driver of the stolen SUV hadn't stopped to help his dying victim and face the consequences.

"I'm okay," she said, casting her eyes down, uncomfortable at how easily DB had read her, before looking back up decisively. "I've requested CCTV footage from all the traffic cameras nearby. I'll get to it first thing tonight."

There was a beat when DB just continued to stare at her before he finally nodded his head. "Shame Archie's away. He could have made a start." He paused, seemingly waiting for Sara to respond, adding when she didn't, "You'll get whoever did it, Sara. I know you will."

Again, Sara's gaze averted and she nodded her head.

"You sure you're okay?" DB asked, his tone soft and caring.

"I'm just tired," she said, looking back up and plastering a wan smile on her face.

DB glanced toward his office door then motioned for her to come a little closer. "It's just that…well," he shrugged and kept his voice low as he talked, "I wasn't sure whether you should be working the case at all, you know," he paused, briefly letting the words hang between them, and Sara nodded that she understood he was referring to Grissom. "Had we not been so short—"

Sara raised her hand to stop him. "It's fine. _I'm_ fine. Don't worry about it. It's the job. As I said, I'm tired. It's been a long shift."

DB considered her for a moment before he slowly nodded his head. "Okay." Out of the blue, a wide smile broke across his face. "You're all set for Thursday?"

Sara's smile returned. "I am. We are." She could hardly contain her excitement at the thought that in a few days' time she'd be seeing Grissom again. It had been close to two months since her last visit, and she couldn't wait. She and Betty had it all planned out. She'd booked five days off work, two of which would be spent travelling and another two visiting Grissom. She'd catch a little sleep after shift on Thursday before they'd hit the road. Provided traffic cooperated, they should get to Bakersfield where they'd booked hotel rooms by early evening.

"I bet you can't wait," DB offered when Sara lapsed into silence.

"And yet I'm going to have to."

DB laughed. "Come on," he said, laughter still in his voice as he nodded toward the door, "Go home. Get some sleep."

Sara nodded. "You should do the same."

DB's expression softened. "And I will," he said, patting the stack of files in front of him. "As soon as I finish these."

On the way home, Sara stopped to grab some breakfast at the drive through, parked up and ate it at the wheel. The case still weighed heavily on her mind, but she knew to trust the evidence. She'd recovered plenty of fingerprints, some hair and fibres too, as well as blood and epithelial tissue on the airbag, notwithstanding the soil in the footwell of the otherwise immaculate car. She knew there was enough there for it to come good for her. She put the last of the muffin in her mouth, took a sip of her coffee and looked at the dash clock. It was almost midday. It was Grissom's day to call and she hoped he'd got the email she'd sent him in the middle of the night to say she would be working late.

Pulling up on her driveway, she waved at her next-door neighbour who was getting into her car. She got out of hers and immediately went to check her mailbox, smiling when she found a letter from Grissom. She slid her finger in the opening and pulled out the single sheet of paper she read as she walked up to her front door. Grinning as she devoured his words, she put the key in the lock, let herself in and disabled the alarm. The red light was flashing on the answerphone, and frowning she pressed play, hung up her jacket on the stand and sat down on the armchair to take off her shoes.

"Hi honey, it's me," Grissom's cheery voice said, filling the silence.

Stopping in her tracks, Sara immediately turned toward the device.

"I know you said to save my minutes and not to call, that you were working late, but I thought I'd call anyway and just say 'Hi' and 'I love you'." He paused. "Sleep well." He was about to hang up when he added, "I'll call again this afternoon."

A fond smile on her face, Sara took Grissom's letter to the bedroom, closed the curtains and got undressed. After a quick shower and brushing her teeth, she put on her nightclothes, slipped into bed and reread the letter. Sleep came almost instantly after that. And then she was standing at the crosswalk at the intersection of that morning's crime scene. It was the very early hours of the morning, the sun was just peeking over the horizon, the streets were empty. The traffic signal changed to red, the walking man lit up. She was about to step into the road when a black Ford Edge came out of nowhere speeding down toward her.

Her heart pounding in her chest, Sara scrambled back onto the sidewalk just as the Ford roared past her. Before she could catch her breath, she heard the screeching of brakes and the crunching of metal against metal as the Ford collided with a Mini Cooper starting up through the intersection. All she could see was bent metal, smashed glass and smoke everywhere. The momentum had sent the Mini into a wild spin that only ended when it mounted the sidewalk and hit a dumpster.

Sara tried to run toward the mangled cars but her legs refused to move and she could only watch, breathless and powerless to help, as the driver of the Ford staggered out of the vehicle and after a moment's pause began to limp away. She called after him, told him to stay where he was, that she'd witnessed the crash and he was under arrest. She was reaching for her phone to call for help when the man stopped in his tracks, turned around and looked straight at her. He radiated shame, anguish and sorrow.

"Gil," she mouthed, aghast, reaching a hand up toward him, and then with tears in her eyes in a frantic shout, "Run!"

Already she could hear the sound of police and ambulance sirens, and still he stood, rooted to the spot, staring at her.

"Run," she murmured, heartbroken, wanting to move toward him but being unable to, "Please, Gil, run!"

The sound of the sirens, distant at first, came closer and closer, and still Grissom stood there, watching her. Again, Sara tried to go to him. She tossed and turned and thrashed in the bed, mumbling unintelligible words to him, telling him to go before the police got there, before they caught him and sent him to jail. The sirens echoed loudly in her head now until she woke with a start to the ringing of the phone. Breathless and momentarily disoriented, she rubbed at her face and turned the bedside light on.

A dream, she thought, trying to catch her breath, it was just a bad dream. Her heart was racing and she took in a deep breath, willing it to slow down. If she didn't know it was Grissom on the line, she'd have let the answerphone pick up the call. But she couldn't, not twice, or he would worry. Instead, and while still trying to put order to the confusion in her mind, she reached for the phone on the nightstand. Bringing it to her ear, she closed her eyes.

"Hey," she answered softly, hoping her tremulous voice didn't betray her disarray.

"Hey," came Brass's reply.

Sara gave her head a shake. "Jim!"

"Not who you were expecting, huh?" he remarked, laughter in his voice.

Sara relaxed a little. "No."

"Sorry to disappoint."

She gave an uneasy chuckle.

"Listen," he went on, "the reason I'm calling—"

"I'm fine," she cut in, anticipating his next words, and got out of bed, headed to the kitchen for some water. "I appreciate the concern and, yes, the case shook me up a little, but I'm fine."

"That's not why I was calling," Brass said after a beat in silence, "but I'm glad to hear it."

Frowning, Sara paused with her hand on the fridge door. "So, why were you calling?"

"I got a lead on the case." Her ears pricking, Sara took a bottle of water out of the fridge and after putting the phone on speaker mode and setting it down onto the counter uncapped the bottle and drank thirstily from it. "I finally traced the registered owner of the Ford – Helen Fieldman. She's in Seattle, visiting relatives. Said she left the car at McCarran airport three days ago. Terminal 1 economy parking garage. I've contacted security there and they're sending me – or rather _you_ – the CCTV footage of the exit barriers."

Sara's heart sank. "All three days of it?"

"It's going to be another long shift. But listen to this," he went on. "The owner also said she'd had the car professionally detailed a couple of weeks back and that nobody's been in the car since – well except for her. So, I called Seattle PD and arranged for her to go in tomorrow. They'll take her fingerprints and a sample of her DNA and send it all to the lab for testing."

Taking the phone and bottle with her, Sara padded back to the bedroom. "You _have_ been busy."

"All in a day's work," he laughed. "And now it's your turn to work your magic."

"I'm going to go in early," she said, already pulling clothes out of the closet, "And make a start. Archie's on vacation, so God knows how long it's going to take."

"Ask Greg. I'm sure he'd come in and give you a hand if you asked him."

 _He probably would too_ , she mused, and was about to say as much when she heard the tell-tale single beep of a second call waiting. "Listen, Jim," she said instead. "I got to go. I think Gil's trying to get through on the phone."

"Alright. Keep me informed, will you?"

"I will."

After exchanging quick goodbyes, Sara hung up on Brass and, connecting to Grissom, blew out a long, slow breath. "Hey," she greeted softly, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

"Am I catching you at a bad time?"

"No. I was just talking to Jim."

"Work's keeping you busy, huh?"

She looked at the clothes laid out on the bed. "Yeah. I got to go in early. It's this…" she was about to say hit and run when she thought better of it, "case I'm working on."

"Anything you want to talk through with me?" Grissom asked gently, after a moment's hesitation.

His query gave her pause. He often asked how work was but he'd never asked to discuss particulars of a case before, and neither had she. Why now, she wondered? Had Brass spoken to him maybe, mentioned that the case had hit a little too close to home? Had he picked up on her downcast mood from the few words they'd exchanged? Regardless of his motives, she wouldn't discuss the case with him; it would only make them feel awkward and uncomfortable, and bring about more negative feelings from him which she knew he still struggled to keep a lid on.

"No, it's okay," she replied, trying to inject a little lightness into her voice. "Archie's on vacation and I've got days' worth of CCTV footage to watch, that's all."

"Not a part of the job I miss, that's for sure," he said in a chuckle. "That said, I'd gladly do it for you if I could. Just to have something to do."

"Still no news on a work assignment?" she asked, grateful for the change of tack.

"As a matter of fact, I have. I'm starting in the laundry room tomorrow."

"Laundry?" she repeated, incredulous. "How do you feel about that?"

"The same way you feel about being in the AV lab for all those long hours. It's not my first choice, but it's better than doing nothing. On the plus side, I'll always have a freshly laundered uniform."

His words brought a smile to her lips. "I can't wait to see you on Friday," she mused, "in your freshly laundered uniform."

"Me either," he said in a soft chuckle. "You're all set?"

"Yep. We got all the paperwork back from the prison yesterday and booked two rooms in the Holiday Inn in Bakersfield."

"You didn't find anywhere in Taft itself?"

"Not anywhere suitable, no. But it's not a bad commute."

He laughed. "And DB was okay with you taking time off work at such short notice? Sounds like the lab's busy."

"The lab's always busy. But yeah, he was."

"You're looking after yourself, right?" he asked, sounding concerned.

"I am. Don't worry." Getting up from the bed, she wedged the phone between her shoulder and ear and began to get out of her nightclothes.

A buzzer sounded through the phone. "Sara," he went on, in a hurry now, "I wondered if you could do me a favour."

Sara paused with her shorts around her ankles. "Sure. What is it? Do you need to buy anything? There should be plenty of—"

"No, I don't need any money. It's not that." He paused, and a frown creasing her brow, Sara waited expectantly for him to continue. "You remember me telling you about this guy I kind of made friends with, right?"

Her frown deepened. "Sure."

"I wondered if you could…look him up for me."

Realising what exactly he meant, she registered a look of surprise. "You worried he knows you?"

"Maybe. I don't know. Something about him bothers me."

"You think you're in danger?"

"No," he denied vehemently. "Not at all. Nothing like that. I just want to make sure he's genuine."

Kicking herself for not looking the guy up when Grissom had first mentioned his name, she stepped out of her shorts, headed to the lounge. "I can do it now, if you want."

"No. I'd rather not waste precious minutes on him, and besides walls have ears. You can tell me on Friday."

She stopped in her tracks. "Okay."

"Did you receive the letter where I tell you about the softball tournament?"

Sara's frown returning, she glanced at the bedside table. "Sure. I got it here with me. Why?"

"Read it again, and you'll figure it out."

All this cloak and dagger talk was beginning to alarm her, and Sara reached for the letter.

"Don't do it now, please," he said, clearly knowing she would. "It's time for count; I don't have long."

Hesitating only briefly, Sara set the letter back down. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure. So, huh, what are you doing now?" he asked, his sudden change of tack catching her off guard.

She looked down at herself; she was naked from the waist down. "Well, I…was about to get dressed, you know, and go to the lab." A knowing smile formed on her lips. "Why?"

"I thought that maybe you…were headed to the shower," he said in a quiet voice.

Sara burst out laughing. "Well, I wasn't."

"Oh."

Her face softened tenderly. "But I could be."

"I got a couple of minutes before I have to go," he remarked matter-of-factly.

A wide smile on her lips, Sara glanced at the time. "Two minutes, huh?" she said, walking over to the adjoining bathroom as she pulled her top over her head. She switched on the light, opened the shower door and turned on the water. "Better make it quick one then," she called, putting the phone on speaker mode next to the sink. If he enjoyed listening to her shower, then the least she could do was indulge him, and that way they didn't have to say goodbye. When she came out of the shower he was gone, but it was with a heavy heart that she disconnected the call.

In the bedroom, she carefully reread Grissom's letter, smiling when finally she noticed that the first letter of each line, just like they would in an acrostic poem, spelled out the name of the man Grissom wanted her to look up. Mitchell Baumstein. Quickly she scribbled the name on a piece of paper and stuffed it in her jeans back pocket. She wondered who he was, and why Grissom was so suspicious of him. She'd look him up during her break.

Greg arrived at the lab twenty minutes after she did. His usual cheery self, he held a paper take-out bag, which he lifted in her eye line. "If we're going to do this properly, we're going to need sustenance," he said, setting the bag on the counter.

Sara's smile widened.

Greg indicated the second monitor.

"It's all cued up," she said. "You got the traffic cameras. I got McCarran's exit barriers.

Greg shared out the food, gave her a plastic fork and napkin, and then took his place at the workstation.

"Thanks, Greg," she said, covering his hand with hers, "for coming in early, and for this too," she added, indicating the food. "I'm starving."

"You're welcome. But you owe me one."

Sara's expression softened. "Oh, I owe you more than one."

As their eyes tracked the fast-moving images on their respective screens, they talked quietly and ate. And when the food was gone, they kept chatting. At the start of shift, DB came to get an update and then gave assignments to the rest of the team, leaving them to carry on. They'd been staring at the screens for ever, it seemed, when Sara finally spotted their Ford Edge at one of McCarran's exit barriers. She made a note of the date and time, tried to get a good picture of the driver but the light and angle were all wrong.

"Let me try," Greg said, and stepping aside Sara watched as he worked. Glancing toward her, he gave her a hesitant smile. "I've been meaning to ask…How's Grissom doing?"

Greg's query took her aback. It was the first time he asked about him since she'd told him the truth. "He's good." She chuckled. "Can you believe he's taken up coaching one of the softball teams?"

Looking dubious, Greg flicked his gaze to her.

Sara shrugged. "The over 60s."

Returning his attention to the screen, Greg pinched his lips to stifle his amusement.

"I'm serious," she insisted. "I think he's bored. No, I _know_ he's bored."

Greg stopped working as he considered her words. "I think that's what would get to me. The boredom and lack of mental stimulation."

Her smile turning wistful, Sara nodded her head.

Greg hesitated. "I read this article in _Science_ —the online magazine?—about the top ten scientific achievements of this year so far. Do you think he'd be interested if I sent it to him?"

"Sure," Sara said, surprised and touched in equal measure by Greg's solicitude. "I think he'd love that." Immediately, she reached for a pad and wrote down Grissom's details and the address of his facility. "Commit the details to memory," she said with mock-sternness as she held out the square of paper, "and then destroy it."

"Aye, Aye," Greg replied, a smile on his lips as he tapped his temple in salute before pocketing the piece of paper and returning to his work. He pressed a few more keys, manipulating the image until he was happy with the result before sending to print a blown-up and fairly sharp colour picture of their suspect. "That's the best I can do," he told Sara as she reached for the printout.

Looking up, she stroked her hand to Greg's shoulder warmly. "Thank you."

His returning smile was wide and more than a little pleased. "But we're not done yet. Let's see if we can get our thief at the wheel at the time of the crash."

The next morning, Sara made a point of being home on time. On the way, she stopped to get some groceries and the local paper. She hadn't written to Grissom in five days and, after making herself an omelette she took to the lounge to eat, she set about reading the Las Vegas Sun and cutting out a few articles of interest as well as the comics and puzzles pages that she would send him. As an afterthought, she included a feature about one of the local women's softball team and their training regime. A mischievous smile played around the edges of her mouth as she sealed the envelope. Maybe he would get a few pointers.

During the following shift, Sara finally caught the break in the hit and run case she was hoping for. As soon as Seattle PD had emailed them a digital copy of Helen Fieldman's fingerprints, Mandy had started to compare them to the mountain of partials Sara had lifted from the interior of the Ford and isolate those of the thief. AFIS had done the rest. The picture on file was a physical match to those from both the airport and traffic cameras. It was enough for a warrant to be issued and the nineteen-year-old to be brought in. DNA results would take longer to get back, but Sara was sure they would be positive matches too. She sat in the interview with Brass and watched as the suspect was finally taken away into custody. It was the closure she was after.

When Sara drove home from work on the Wednesday morning she was drained but strangely content. Grissom was scheduled to call at eleven, and she had one more shift until she and Betty left for Bakersfield. The two women had arranged to meet later in the day to put the finishing touches to their trip. As usual, she parked up and went to check the mailbox. Another letter from Grissom was waiting, and a wide smile on her face she picked it up and carefully tore the envelope open. Taking the two sheets of paper out, she began to read.

A car started up further down the deserted street, sped up then pulled up at the curb near Sara. The car hadn't fully come to a stop that already the passenger-side doors opened and two men got out. Before Sara could react, one of the men had slipped a bag over her head while the other dragged her toward the idling vehicle. She shouted for help but her cry was muffled. As she kicked and fought off her attackers, she let go of Grissom's letter and her purse fell off her shoulder to the ground.

It took less than ten seconds for her to vanish.


	31. Chapter 31

This was Grissom's second day working in the laundry room and already he was bored out of his mind. His job, if you could call it that, was to swap the cart where inmates dropped off their laundry bag full of their soiled uniforms and bedlinens for an empty one, before wheeling the full cart to another inmate whose job it was to load the bags into industrial-sized washing machines. Once his cart was empty, he made the return journey and swapped the cart for another full one. Back and forth, back and forth, he went, for three hours five days a week. It was tedious, but it helped pass the time and it meant that he was earning again.

As soon as the buzzer sounded announcing the end of his shift, he headed to the chow hall where he ate his lunch quickly, then joined the line to use the phones. It was almost eleven. He knew Sara would be home, getting ready for bed. This would be the last time they spoke before they'd see each other again on the Friday. Smiling in anticipation, he took a deep breath. It had been so long since he'd held her in his arms. When his turn came, he took his place at the open booth, picked up the receiver and dialled his inmate phone code followed by his home phone number.

The call rang and rang and his heart growing heavy with regret he braced himself for the sound of her cheerful voice telling him to leave a message. "Hi, honey, it's me," he said, not quite managing to hide the disappointment from his voice. "You must still be at work. I—I didn't check my emails today. Anyways, I—I'll try again later this afternoon. I love you. Sleep well."

With a sigh, he paused briefly, then hung up the phone and freed up the booth for the next person waiting in line. Sara had probably decided to work late, he figured, and do as much as she could before she came to visit. But then again, she had the next shift to do that. Puzzled and unsure of what to do next, he went to the computer room, once again waiting his turn before taking his place in front of the monitor. When he logged on, he was surprised to see that his inbox showed no new messages.

It was a little odd and unlike Sara not to let him know she wouldn't be home when they'd arranged to talk, but he figured that she was probably busy at a scene, out of town and therefore out of cell phone range and unable to email. It wouldn't be the first time it happened, and he told himself not to worry. She'd undoubtedly be as frustrated as he was. He went to his dorm, made himself comfortable on his cot and opened the biography of Martin Luther King Jr he'd borrowed from the library and started to read a few days previously.

The dorm was unusually quiet, so he couldn't blame outside interference for his lack of concentration, but his thoughts were with Sara and despite starting the same page several times he didn't take in much of what he read. Heaving a restless sigh, he snapped the book shut and removed his glasses, reached for his radio and put the buds in his ears, closing his eyes and eventually falling asleep. For a short while, his mind was uncluttered, full of Sara and of happy memories.

At about two, he woke up with a crick in his neck. Carefully, he sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the cot and stretched. His earbuds had fallen out, and he put them and his radio away. At a loss, he went to the library and read the paper, then headed outside and walked around the playing fields a few times, where a soccer game was in progress. When dinnertime came at four-thirty, he made his way to the chow hall and lined up again. So much time was wasted lining up, he thought, but then again he had nothing but time in this place. He was beginning to resent it.

No sooner had he finished his evening meal than he once again made his way to the phones to call Sara. Their all-too-brief conversation would be the highlight of his day, and he could barely contain his excitement. When his turn came, he went through the motions, only for his call to go straight to voicemail. This lack of contact was making him anxious and edgy. He left another message, this time not disguising his worry and confusion, and asking please that she emailed as soon as possible if only to put his mind at rest.

Only then remembering that she and his mother had arranged to meet that afternoon to finalise details of their trip, he headed to the computer room and logged on. His inbox still showed no new messages. _Tried to call_ , he wrote Sara in an email he knew she could pick up from her cell phone if she'd gone straight to work after seeing his mother, _but no one's home. I hope everything's okay and that you're just busy. Can't wait to see you and Mom on Friday. Love, Gil._

He sent the email and then set about writing one to his mother, asking if she and Sara had met as they'd arranged. But even as he typed the words, he knew something was wrong. What if Betty had fallen ill again and Sara was busy taking care of her, he wondered then? He felt so powerless, so remote and out of the loop. Afterwards by force of habit, he joined the flow of inmates headed to the dayroom for mail call. He waited by the door while two officers handed out letters and small packets, stepping forward when his name was called. He received two letters; the first, a thick one from Sara that brought a smile to his wary face, and a second from Greg that had his heartbeat quicken.

A worried frown creasing his brow, he quickly took Greg's letter out of the already open envelope and stepped outside the dayroom to read it. Except it wasn't a letter, but a printout of an internet article onto which Greg had written a line at the very top – _Saw this and immediately thought of you_ – followed by a smiley face. More touched by the gesture than he would have expected, Grissom's smile widened until he chuckled with disbelief.

"Hey, Grissom, you got good news?" Mitch asked, his tone jovial and friendly as he put a hand on Grissom's shoulder.

Grissom looked up with a start. His smile lingered. "Something like that." Quickly and surreptitiously, he folded up Greg's printout and slipped it back in the envelope.

"From your wife, is it?"

Grissom looked at the second letter in his hands. "Yeah."

"You're from Vegas, aren't you?" It was a statement rather than a question.

Grissom frowned. "How did you know?"

Mitch shrugged. "You must have told me."

Grissom's frown deepened.

"What are you doing now?" Mitch went on pleasantly before Grissom could respond. "Want to play some chess? A few of the guys are meeting in a half hour or so."

"I can't. I got something to do."

"Okay," Mitch replied easily, and his own mail in hand started walking away. "We'll be in the activities room if you change your mind."

After reading Sara's letter and a few of the articles she'd included and stowing everything safely in his locker, Grissom returned to the computer room to check if his mother had replied – or Sara, for that matter. It hadn't been that long since he'd emailed them, but he couldn't rest until he knew they were okay. There was one new message from his mother.

 _Gil,_ she wrote. _It worries me that you didn't manage to speak to Sara today when you had arranged to. I know how much she looks forward to your calls._ _She and I were indeed due to meet this afternoon but she didn't show, which is very unlike her. I sent her a couple of texts, but haven't heard back. That said, she has been very busy at work. Should I text Nick, or Captain Brass? I have both their cell numbers._

 _Yes, please_ , he typed back quickly. Because he was too agitated to wait, he emailed Brass himself. He waited anxiously for either replies to pop into his inbox, but his fifteen minutes at the computer ran out before they did. Slamming his hands against the table, Grissom let out a frustrated growl that had a few heads turn toward him, and logged off. Storming out of the room, he headed back to his dorm, ignoring the few inmates that greeted him, sat down on his cot and stood up again, restless, out of his mind with worry.

Something was very wrong; he could feel it in his bones. But what? With a sigh, he got the latest letter she'd sent him and hoping it would appease his troubled mind read it again. It didn't. He was writing his reply to her when a correctional officer walked up to his cubicle.

"Grissom," the officer called, and he looked up with a start. "The warden wants to see you."

"The warden?" Grissom queried, his frown deepening as he took the proffered cop-out from the officer, a slip of paper allowing him out of the unit. "Now?"

"That's what it says, doesn't it?"

"Do you know what it's about?" Grissom asked, standing up.

"Nope. But it must be serious because the warden's never here this late normally."

A visit to the warden could only mean bad news, and Grissom's heart sank. He nodded his head, and the officer turned on his heels. Grissom removed his glasses and hurriedly tidied his writing stuff away before making his way to the correctional officers' office. Using his pass, he was taken out of the unit to the administration area. He and the officer stopped at the first security door and while they waited to be buzzed out the officer slipped cuffs on his wrists. His hands were shaking.

In the administration building, another officer took over escorting him. All too soon, the officer knocked on the warden's door and popped his head in before telling Grissom to enter. Grissom went in grudgingly and stood uncertainly in front of the desk. The warden was a portly man, of a similar age to Grissom, his face creased in a permanent scowl. Grissom clasped his hands together in front of him and braced himself. It reminded him of when he'd stood in front of the judge before he was sentenced. He'd take another ten years, or even a life sentence, if it meant that Sara was safe.

"Is it about my wife?" he asked fearfully when the warden finally looked up.

"I don't know," the warden replied, his tone solemn. "All I know is, I got this call a half-hour ago from the Clark County Sherriff in Nevada."

Grissom's eyes closed as the thought that his worst fears were about to be confirmed, that Sara had got hurt on the job, or worse, God forbid. Why else would Brass have told Ecklie the truth of his whereabouts? "Ecklie called you?" he finally choked out.

"That's right. A personal friend, is he?"

Grissom gave a single nod of the head.

"Well, he asked that I do him a courtesy and allowed you one phone call to this number," the warden said, pushing a piece of paper on the desk toward Grissom.

Grissom glanced at the paper but at this distance and without his glasses on he couldn't make much out.

"Take the cuffs off him," the warden instructed the officer.

The officer did as bid while the warden lifted his desk phone receiver. "So, this is how it's going to work," he said, as he began pressing numbers. "I'm going to make the call and stay in the room with Officer Packwood while you talk. And remember all calls are recorded, even those from this office."

Grissom gave another wordless nod.

"You can take a seat," the warden then told him, motioning him toward the chair, before addressing whoever had answered the call. Officer Packwood moved to stand by the door. "Captain Brass. This is John Keller, Warden for FCI Taft." While Brass talked, the warden glanced toward Grissom who sat down. "Yes, he is." He listened again, then passed the receiver to Grissom who had to lean forward in order to reach it.

"Jim, what's going on?" he asked in a shaky voice.

"I'm sorry, Gil, but I have bad news. There's no gentle way of breaking it to you, so I'm just—"

"It's Sara, isn't it?" Grissom cut in desolately, turning away to hide his growing emotion. "Something's happened to her?"

Brass took in a breath he let out slowly. "We got a call this morning from your next-door neighbour. Julie Swain? You know her?"

Grissom gave his head a shake; the name didn't ring a bell. "Maybe. I don't know." And then it dawned on him. "This morning?" he exclaimed disbelievingly. "And you're only telling me now?"

"I hoped I wouldn't have to tell you until after we found her," Brass retorted, his tone full of sadness.

"Found her? What's going on?" Grissom asked, his voice breaking. "Where is she?"

"We still don't know. Your neighbour, she, huh, called this morning at about 8.30. Said she saw two men bundle Sara into the back of a black Suburban."

Grissom wiped at his face, as if wanting to wake himself up from this nightmare. "What?"

"Sara had just got home from the lab. She was at the mailbox when they put a bag over her head and took her. The neighbour said she was too far to see the licence plates."

Grissom's eyes closed as finally Brass's words registered. "Oh, dear God. She was kidnapped?"

"Now, we've got footage from all the traffic cameras in and out of your neighbourhood and the guys are following a few leads. But, well, I was wondering if she'd mentioned…something unusual to you maybe."

Grissom racked his brain, but it was a little foggy. "I don't think so." And then more assuredly, "No. She didn't."

"She never mentioned she thought she was being followed? Or getting nuisance phone calls? Anything like that?"

Again coming up blank, Grissom shook his head. "No, nothing. What case was she working on?"

"Nothing so serious as to warrant being kidnapped," Brass said. "But we're looking into whether someone she had a hand put behind bars got out of prison recently. Or maybe is due to appear in court."

It was useless; _he_ was useless. He was so out of touch, he couldn't think of anything that could help Brass. Taking a few deep breaths, Grissom remained silent for a few seconds while he reigned in his anguish and tried his hardest to keep a cool head. It wouldn't help anyone to lose it now.

"Gil? Gil, you're still there?"

"What about her cell phone?" he then asked, refocusing.

"It's with us at the lab. It was in her purse, which presumably dropped to the ground when they took her. Her house keys were in it too. We checked; the house was intact, the alarm enabled. The only thing we couldn't find was her badge. And she didn't leave it in her locker at the lab, we checked."

"She would have been wearing it," he said in a sigh of realisation. "If they didn't know who she was when they took her, they do now."

"We haven't heard anything," Brass said after a beat, "no ransom demands or messages, nothing."

Again, Grissom wiped his hand over his face. He knew that abductions by strangers were very rare.

"I got a text message from your mother," Brass went on. "Sara got a couple too. By the sound of things, they were due to meet this afternoon."

"I know."

"So, what do you want me to do? Text her back and let her know?"

Grissom paused, then looked at his watch. "No, I'll do it. I have time to do it before lockup."

"Okay."

"They were coming to visit," Grissom said, his tears returning.

"I know buddy. I know. I'm sorry."

"Every hour that passes—"

"I know. You don't have to tell me." Brass paused, sighed. "I had to tell Ecklie, Gil. I had to tell him. He was asking questions and—"

"It's okay. Don't worry about it."

"So far I've managed to keep a lid on events but you know what the media's like. There's been a lot of police activity in your street and—"

"You're worried people will find out about me?" He gave a nervous laugh. "Just do what you have to do to find her. I don't care about the rest. If anything were to happen to her…" His emotion threatened to spill and, sucking in his breath, he let his words trail off.

"We're doing everything we can," Brass said, his voice trembling, and for the first time Grissom heard how weary and anxious his old friend was.

He frowned, then sat up straight in the chair. "Wait a minute," he said, his brain finally clicking into motion. "You said she was at the mailbox. Did you recover any mail?"

"No. Nothing. We figured she must have been there checking but got nothing."

He did some quick calculations. "It's possible, but I write her every day. There should have been a letter."

"We didn't find one. Why?"

"Well, I'm thinking. The letter would have had my contact details on it. If they found the letter, they know where I am. Maybe the reason Sara was taken was to get to me." He gave a despondent sigh. "It wouldn't be the first time."

"We thought of that and looked into Natalie. She was the first person we thought of actually. She's still locked up in Florence. We're looking into Basderic too. Hell, we went as far as checking Hannah's whereabouts. She's currently living in Canada."

Grissom frowned. "Who's Basderic?"

Brass paused. "He—he's a guy Sara had a hand put behind bars a little over a year and a half ago. The case was messy, to say the least. He's serving time in High Desert."

He should have realised Brass would have had that angle covered. His feelings of powerlessness returned.

"But if all they wanted was to know where you are. Why take her?"

"I don't know."

"Let's assume they took her to get to you, but it's none of our usual suspects. Do _you_ have someone in mind?"

Grissom did, but it was a bit of a stretch, and apart from a gut feeling he had no evidence. And _kidnapping_? "Maybe," he said finally, and sighed. "But the taking of the letter wouldn't be relevant."

"I'm not following."

Grissom took a deep breath then stole a look at the warden while he tried to put some order to the chaos in his head. The warden was making a show of looking over files, but Grissom knew he was listening in to the conversation. Still, he had no choice. "When I called Sara the day before yesterday, I asked her to look someone up for me."

"Go on."

The warden pricked up his ears, and knowing what he was about to confess might get him into trouble Grissom sighed. "A guy who's in prison here with me. Someone I thought might have recognised me."

"Someone you knew?" Brass queried with renewed interest.

"No, that's the thing."

"And what did she find?"

"I don't know." He lowered his voice, but it was useless. "She was supposed to tell me when she came to visit."

"What's the guy's name, Gil?"

Grissom sighed. "Now, I'm now saying that he's behind it, but…well, you know, it's a bit of a coincidence otherwise."

"And we know where we stand on those. So, the guy's name?" Brass went on, impatiently.

Glancing toward the warden, Grissom hesitated briefly. "Mitchell Baumstein." But even as he said the name, he had doubts. It seemed so farfetched.

"Just hold on a second, Gil," Brass said, and Grissom could imagine Brass was bringing up Mitch's file. And so was the warden, now busy typing away at his computer. "Nothing stands out," Brass then said, coming back on the line, "But I'll take a closer look. I'll look into his immediate family too, all his connections." Grissom heard a voice in the background before Brass muffled the phone. "Listen, Gil, I got to go," he then said, "But I'll email and keep you posted. And if you think of anything else, email me. I'll make sure to check regularly."

"Thanks, Jim," he said, and when the line went dead abruptly he sighed and stared unseeingly in front of him for a few moments while he tried to wrap his head around everything.

"I'm sorry to hear about your wife," the warden said, when refocusing Grissom handed back the phone.

Tears in his eyes, Grissom gave a nod of thanks.

"You're going to be okay?"

Again, Grissom nodded his head.

"Stay away from Baumstein until we know for sure whether he had a hand in your wife's disappearance, alright? Judging from his BOP record it looks unlikely, but I'll get my officers to check his correspondence and monitor his phone calls. I'll have his locker searched as well."

Again Grissom nodded, but he wasn't listening.

The warden sighed. "Grissom," he said, and Grissom looked up, "Because of your past line of work, steps were taken before you were transferred here to ensure your safety. But we can't check every single inmate's record, or that of their friends and family."

"I know."

The warden watched Grissom for a moment, then motioned to Officer Packwood and standing Grissom held his wrists out. "It won't be necessary," the warden told the officer.

Grissom hung his head low as he walked back to his unit, headed straight to the computer room to tell his mother the news. The place was heaving and looking at the floor, Grissom once again waited in line for his turn. He contemplated not telling his mother the full truth, but knew that it wouldn't be fair. How could he tell her what happened without alarming her? How could he tell her the visit was off without disappointing her? He was such a failure, a source of constant pain for everyone. His tears returned and sucking in a sob he wiped at them angrily.

When his turn came, he took his place at the computer, put his glasses on and logged into his account. His hands were shaking and he balled them up into fists to stop the tremor. He hovered the cursor over Sara's contact before he finally clicked on his mother's name and opened a new thread. He typed furiously and with tears in his eyes, explaining what had happened and promising to email again when he knew more. Sucking in another fraught breath, he sent the email, logged off and stormed out of the room.

He felt so powerless to help, so far removed from everything, so responsible. He'd got himself locked up. He hadn't been there to look after Sara, and now he couldn't even help to find her. Or maybe he could, he realised suddenly, stopping dead in his tracks and changing course. Like a man on a mission, he checked the activities' room, scanning quick eyes over the faces there, before moving to the dayroom and then the TV room, drawing a blank. Mumbling to himself, he was rounding the corner toward the chow hall when he came across the man he was after.

"Where's Sara?" he asked without preamble, his tone dark and menacing.

Mitch's smile faded from his lips, morphing into a frown of confusion. "Where's who?"

"Sara, my wife," Grissom said, taking a step toward Mitch, backing him against the wall. "She's gone missing. What have you done to her? Where have you taken her?"

Mitch gave his head a shake. "Pal, I don't know what you're talking about."

Grissom's fury was blinding, all-encompassing, making him act in ways he'd never do otherwise. "Don't _pal_ me," he retorted, giving Mitch's chest a shove. "And don't play games. I know you know who I am. I know you recognised me."

Mitch did a double take. "Recognised you? From where?" He laughed nervously. "Sure, you look familiar but—"

"Where is she?" Grissom gritted again, taking another step forward menacingly until he stood face to face with Mitch.

Looking scared, Mitch looked left and right but they were alone. He tried a placating smile, but it came out as a pained grimace. "Listen," he said, "I told you. I don't know what you're talking about, and I certainly don't have anything to do with it." He raised his hands in the air and dropped them powerlessly. "I'm sorry to hear something's happened to your wife – Sara, is it? – but it has nothing to do with me."

Grissom grabbed Mitch by his uniform shirt and twisted, forcefully bringing the man closer to him. "I don't believe you," he spat in Mitch's face, holding his gaze steadily. "She was on to you, and somehow you found out."

"On to me?" Mitch exclaimed with disbelief. He tried to break free, but Grissom pinned him harder against the wall. Mitch's eyes turned pleading, beseeching. "I don't know who you think I am, and I don't know what she thinks she found out about me, but I swear to you, on my children's lives, that I have nothing to do with her disappearance."

"You! Let go of him right now!"

Although the loud bark of the officer startled him, Grissom didn't release his hold on Mitch.

"I said, let go of him and take a step back!"

Mitch's eyes went from the officer back to Grissom's face, and Grissom let out a breath before slowly dropping his eyes and his hand.

The officer called for backup on his radio.

"Take a step back," he told Grissom again, more quietly. "Then face the wall with your hands behind your back."

Only just realising what he'd done, what he could have done, Grissom complied fully and let the officer put cuffs on him.

"Listen, officer," Mitch said, "There's no need for this. It was just a disagreement between two friends. Wasn't it, Grissom?"

Grissom remained silently staring at the wall.

"Is that so?" the officer said, clearly humouring Mitch, while a second officer arrived. "We don't condone violence, or any forms of intimidation in this facility," he said, pulling on the cuffs.

"Grissom's not a bad guy," Mitch tried again, "he just got some bad news, that's all."

"A day in the hole will help him process the news."

"No!" Grissom cried out, turning toward the officer.

"What did you expect? You should have thought of the consequences before you acted out."

"Oh, come on," Mitch pleaded. "That's not going to be necessary. No harm was done, and I'm not pressing charges. See?"

"You shut up, and beat it," the second officer said.

"Or you can spend a day in the hole too," the first officer piped up.

Backing down, Mitch looked at Grissom. "I'm sorry to hear about your wife," he said again, "and I swear to you I don't have anything to do with her going missing. You got to believe that."

As, head bowed down, he was being led away to solitary confinement, Grissom didn't know whether to believe Mitch or not. He sounded so convincing, but Grissom told himself that he was a lawyer, and a crooked one at that. When the cell door closed on him, he lay down on the cot onto his side, unseeingly staring at the concrete wall. Images of Sara hurt, or worse lying dead in a ditch in the desert, filled his mind, and he began to cry. Quietly at first, and then more forcefully until great sobs racked his body.

 _I'm going to fucking kill you,_ echoed in his head clear as day.

His crying stopped instantly.

Armstrong. It had to be Armstrong behind the kidnapping. Armstrong knew about Sara, hell she had been the cause of the argument that had had him transferred back to maximum security. Who else would bear such a strong grudge against him? Who else would go to such lengths to exact revenge? How could he have not realised sooner? A shiver ran through his body, because with the realisation came new fears. Armstrong was a dangerous man, even behind bars.

Drying his face, he got up from the cot and began hammering at the door with his fist.

He wouldn't stop until he had the officers' attention. Even if he harmed himself in the process.

He needed to let Brass know, and he needed to do it quickly.


	32. Chapter 32

"She's a cop, man. A COP!"

The man's sudden shout finally broke through the fog in Sara's head.

"That was never the deal. You never said nothing about taking a cop."

"That's because I didn't know, alright?" a second voice exclaimed, clearly sounding exasperated. "How many goddamn times do I have to tell you!"

"I bet they're already all over our asses."

"They're not."

The voices, dreamlike and distant at first, came more distinctly now. Sara didn't think she recognised either as she lay anxiously with her eyes closed, still and afraid to take a breath lest she was discovered, awake and listening. Briefly she wondered if she was dreaming, but this felt real, like no dream she'd ever had. Then that morning's events – was it only just that morning? – came flooding back to her, bringing with them renewed fear.

"I say we cut our losses," the first man went on, and still Sara held her breath.

"What, and just walk out and leave her here?"

Sara daren't move, but she realised that the voices, although close by, came from somewhere above her. Slowly she opened her eyes but could see nothing, the darkness surrounding her all-encompassing.

"Oh, no, no, no. I ain't killing no cop."

"We covered our tracks."

Without making a sound, Sara tried shifting position onto her back, but her movement were restricted, further aggravating the pounding in her head. Softly, she tugged at her right arm. A chain jangled. Her heart sank; she was tethered to a wall beside her.

"I can't fucking believe it!" the first voice then exclaimed in a growl of despair. "They're going to throw the book at us."

Sara heard footsteps on the wood floor overhead, footsteps that seemed directly above her as though coming for her. Panicked, she scrambled into a sitting position and curled herself up protectively as tightly as she could in the corner of the room against the wall. Now that her eyes had fully adjusted to the dark, she could see a little daylight filtering in through small cracks in the wood floor above and a darker patch with a square rim of light around it she presumed was a trapdoor. She must be in a cellar of sorts, a basement. It certainly smelled like it.

"They won't catch us alright? So quit worrying."

The house fell silent, and keeping her eyes to the ceiling to track the two men's movement Sara slowly rubbed her free hand up and down her arm for warmth. Apart from a headache, she didn't think she was injured. She touched her fingertips to her temple, felt a lump there, a nasty bruise. She was relieved to see that she was still wearing her own clothes. She trailed her hand to her neck and left wrist. Her watch and pendant were missing. She wriggled her cold toes – her boots were missing too.

"So, what do we do now?" the first voice asked, refocusing her.

"We hold tight, that's what we do."

"We hold tight? For how long?"

"I don't know, alright?" the second man snapped. "For however long it takes. Just leave me the fuck alone while I figure it out."

There was no reply, but Sara heard more footsteps this time moving away. A door opened and slammed. She waited a few minutes and when the house remained silent she slowly pushed to her feet and stood on what felt like an old mattress. Careful not to tug at the chain and keeping her eyes to the trapdoor, she felt her free hand the length of the wall and tried to touch her fingertips to the ceiling just to get a measure of how big the basement was. It was bare and deep, longer than she could reach, and without a ladder there was no way she could get out.

At a loss, she felt her pockets for a weapon of sorts but they were empty. Her CSI badge wasn't clipped to the waistband of her pants either and she realised that that was how her kidnappers had found out she was law-enforcement. She felt her fingers to the handcuff around her wrist, contorted her hand this way and that trying to slide it through but it was too tight. Then she felt along the thick metal chain to a ring on the wall, and grabbing the chain with both hands pulled and yanked with all her might. It didn't budge.

Even if she managed to get free from the chain, how would she reach the trapdoor? She squatted down and patted her way to the edge of the mattress, felt the ground beneath – damp and cold compacted earth. Maybe she could dig her way out, she thought. With what? Her fingers?

Tears of frustrations formed as she realised that she would never be able to get herself out of there, that she was utterly helpless and powerless, at the mercy of her keepers. The tears rolled down her face, warm and salty, gathering at the corners of her mouth, stinging her dry lips. Suddenly cold, she wrapped her arms around herself, slid down against the wall before lying down on the mattress and curling up. The chain jangled again, echoing loudly it seemed, too loudly in the pitch dark. Her tears were falling freely now and scrunching her eyes shut she silently surrendered to her despair.

"It's me, Dooley," a voice said overhead.

Immediately on alert, Sara stopped crying and pricked up her ears. It was the voice of the second man, the one she assumed was in charge. He was talking on the phone. She heard a chair creak and scrape back on the wood floor and then receding footsteps.

"We got a situation. The woman, well, turns out she's a cop…" The voice grew fainter until Sara heard a door open and the house once again fell silent. She tried pricking up her ears even more but it was useless.

So at least three people were involved, she thought then. One person to drive the car and two to bundle her in. She remembered the kidnapping clearly. She remembered being at the mailbox and finding a letter from Grissom; a car stopping at the curb; two men coming from behind, putting a bag over her head and forcing her into the car. She remembered her purse and the letter dropping to the ground; maybe a passer-by had come across the items and alerted the authorities.

"Come on, Sara," she mumbled, and dried the remnants of her tears. "Come on, girl. Enough crying. You got to find a way out."

She didn't remember travelling in the car or being moved to the basement. She touched her fingers to her temple again; they must have knocked her out when she wouldn't stop struggling. It had certainly done the trick and she couldn't help wondering what time it was and how long she'd been out for. She wondered at a motive, figured that if they were going to kill her, or rape her, they would have done it already.

Random kidnapping by strangers were statistically rare. And if they wanted ransom money they'd picked the wrong girl. Human trafficking? A sex slave? Was she out of state already? She knew that sadly it went on, but generally gangs preyed on young, helpless, vulnerable women. Money was involved, that was for sure, but judging from their argument before, her kidnappers hadn't known she was law-enforcement when they'd taken her. So presumably, the abduction didn't have anything to do with her job.

"What do you want with me?" she shouted up, anger rising within her. "Why have you taken me?"

She didn't get a reply and, realising both her keepers were out of earshot, she grabbed the chain with both hands and started to pull again, moving left and right, trying to snap the chain or free the ring from its concrete anchor. When it didn't work, she grew frustrated. She let out an angry growl that reverberated eerily around the basement, then banged her fist against the wall and frenetically, erratically, continued yanking at the chain. To no avail. All she did was hurt her hands. Breathless, she gave up and fell to her knees on the mattress, her head shaking in despair and disbelief.

She thought about Grissom then, and the missed call, and the irony of their situation. He too was locked up, just like she was. She began to laugh, a quiet, nervous laugh that soon turned to tears. She wiped at them angrily and told herself to be strong, that she'd find a way out, a way back to him. And if she didn't, then _he_ would find a way to her – or Brass and the team would. They had to know she was missing by now, didn't they?

Doubts crept in. Her neighbourhood had been quiet at that time of day, her street deserted. There wouldn't have been any witnesses. Even _she_ was hazy with the detail. She couldn't put a face to her kidnappers, hadn't even got a look at the car. Couldn't even say what colour it was, let alone the make and model, or which direction it went. No one would think it strange for her car to be on the drive all day, no one would miss her until that evening's shift. Grissom would wonder at her absence, but she was sure he'd put it down to work.

She was so lost in her own thoughts that she didn't hear the men come back and movement above her until a bolt slid across and then a second one and the trapdoor lifted a crack. Panic immediately set in at the thought that they were coming for her. She looked up automatically, ready for a fight, only to shield her eyes when the beam of a torch shone through the opening. Blinded, she couldn't see anyone or anything but clearly heard the sound of an item being dropped on the mattress nearby. She recoiled on instinct. No words were spoken. The trapdoor was quickly lowered and the two bolts slid back into place.

Sara blew out a few long breaths to still her racing heart, then felt the mattress around her and found a paper bag. Carefully, she opened it and took out two sandwiches and a small bottle of water. The sandwiches were simple, homemade. The water was warm. Suddenly she was ravenous and it wasn't until she'd devoured the first sandwich that she realised she was eating bologna. Still, beggars couldn't be choosers and if she wanted to keep her strength up and survive she needed to eat. And survive she would, at all costs.

Upstairs the men were talking, arguing maybe, but it was too quiet for Sara to make out what was being said, especially over the sound of what she thought was sport commentary on either the radio or television. Distantly, from another direction, she thought she could hear the low, incessant droning of a generator that hadn't been there before. She wondered if it was night-time and the generator used to create electricity. The wait without information, the inaction and uncertainty, the not knowing of her fate, was driving her crazy. She had to try something.

"I need to pee," she called up.

Wanting to show that she wasn't a threat to them, she kept her tone light, unconcerned. She figured that if they let her out to use the facilities she could maybe overpower them and escape, or at least glean some clues as to who they were and where she was. Maybe she could get a hold of a cell phone and call for help. She'd certainly have more of an advantage upstairs than stuck in this dank basement.

The conversation between the men stopped, but she got no reply.

"I need to pee!" she called again, more loudly to be heard over the sound of the television. And when again they kept silent, "I can hear you. I know you're up there."

"There's a pail. Use that," the gruff voice from the man she'd come to think of as in charge, the one named Dooley, called back.

Sara winced at the thought. The men turned up the sound of the commentary, drowning out their voices completely. She felt around the small basement, eventually locating the pail in the opposite corner, just within reach if she lay flat on her back and used her feet to pick it up and bring it closer.

"I can't get to it," she shouted again, loudly, hoping that would do the trick.

"That's your problem."

She took a breath, tried to curb her rising temper. "Come on. Can't you let me out? Just for five minutes? I really need to go."

"Can't you let me out?" Dooley called back, mimicking her tone of voice. He sounded a little rowdy and she wondered if they were drinking. "I really need to go."

Both men laughed.

"What do you want with me anyway?" she growled back, once again growing frustrated, stopping all pretence at niceness, as she angrily began tugging at the chain.

"Feisty. I like that. Maybe we should let her out after all. Have us a little fun."

The laughter redoubled.

Exhausted, Sara dropped the chain and banged her fist to the wall before sinking back down on the mattress, trying to come up with a new strategy.

"What is it you're after?" she called again. "What is it you're waiting for? Money? I haven't got any. There isn't any!"

"That's not what we heard," the other man replied.

"Keep your fucking mouth shut," Dooley said, snapping at him.

Sara frowned, uncomprehending. What had they heard?

"And you," Dooley went on, clearly addressing Sara, "You shut the fuck up too, or there will be consequences."

Sara had other ideas. "You must have the wrong person," she tried again.

This got their attention. "Your name is Sara, right?" Dooley replied. "Sara Grissom? Husband behind bars? I think we got the right woman alright."

She frowned. Privately she used the name Grissom, for all of her personal documentation anyway, had changed to that name when she and Grissom had got married, but professionally she'd kept Sidle. It had been easier that way.

"No. I'm Sara _Sidle,"_ she said, hoping they were as dumb as she thought they were. "You got my work badge. Check!"

She heard movement upstairs and urgent talking but again and despite trying her hardest she couldn't make out what was being said. She hoped she'd done enough to rattle them and put doubt in their minds. Maybe if they thought they had the wrong woman, they would indeed cut their losses. She winced, maybe she hadn't fully thought that one through.

What was clear though was that whoever was behind the kidnapping knew Grissom was in prison, but didn't know she was in law-enforcement. Would it have made a difference if they had? And why did they think she had money, she wondered then? Unless they thought Grissom did. Had they sent him a ransom demand?

She thought about his covert request that she looked up Mitchell Baumstein, but all she had dug up about the financial lawyer was a conviction by a federal jury in Los Angeles for conspiring to commit securities fraud and wire fraud. Nothing violent, or local to Las Vegas or involving Grissom or the crime lab in any way. If Baumstein knew Grissom, it wasn't through work-related dealings.

She thought about Armstrong as a possible suspect too. It would be relatively easy for him to organise the kidnapping from behind bars. And he had motive. From what she'd read, he was a violent man, a connected man, linked to gangs and organised crime. The two men upstairs seemed a long way from being organised, though, quite the opposite in fact. Professionals would have done their research and known who she was.

She sat for ages on the hard mattress, too wired-up to relax, too scared to go to sleep, trying to come up with a viable suspect. The house was still now, completely silent and dark, the television off, the generator outside too. She wondered if the men had left – she hadn't heard a car – but figured they'd simply gone to sleep. Every so often she'd pull at the chain, hoping to gradually dislodge it, and call something up to the men, just to keep her spirits up. She never got a reply. Eventually, she grew colder and tired. Curled up on herself in the corner of the room with a good view of the trapdoor, she tried to stay awake, but her eyelids grew heavier and heavier until finally she went to sleep.

And then she was standing at the crosswalk at the intersection of the hit-and-run crime scene again. It was the very early hours of the morning, the sun was just peeking over the horizon, the streets were empty. The traffic signal changed to red, the walking man lit up. She was stepping out into the road when Brass's police cruiser, with its lights flashing and siren screaming, came speeding down toward her. She moved to the middle of the road and waved her hands in the air, calling for help. Brass slammed on the brakes, coming to a screeching halt in front of her, and rushed out of the vehicle, calling though his radio loud speaker, "Sara! Sara! Hold tight! We're coming for you!"

Sara awoke with a start, gasping, her heart pounding. Sitting up, she pushed damp, matted hair away from her face and looked around her, trying to get her bearings. All appeared still and as silent as it had been when she'd dozed off, but when she listened closely she heard the pitter-patter of footsteps moving about the place and a voice speaking in a loud, commanding whisper. It was still pitch back, but she could see the searching beams of flashlights.

Immediately on her guards, Sara cowered further into the corner. And then chaos erupted. They were simultaneous shouts of "LVPD! Don't move!" and "Hands up and behind your back!" followed by "Where is she? Where is Sara? The woman you took, what have you done with her?"

Relief flooded her. "I'm here," Sara called, shakily pushing to her feet, and cleared her throat. "I'm down here. In the basement."

"Captain," an officer said. "Here. There's a trapdoor in the floor."

Another officer told Brass the house was clear, and she heard more footsteps coming toward her. The two bolts were slid across, the trapdoor lifted and swung fully open while a torch was shone through the opening, causing Sara to turn her face away.

"Oh, dear God, Sara," Brass said. "Someone, get me a ladder!" he then shouted. "And a blanket. And call for an ambulance."

"Sara!" Greg called, and she could well imagine him rushing into the house.

Careful to keep the chain out of sight, Sara looked up and gave Greg a small smile. When Brass and Nick pushed past Greg, quickly lowering a ladder into the basement, she stepped back against the wall.

"Are you hurt?" Brass called down.

"I don't think so." She paused, looked at Brass steadfastly. "But _you_ got to come down."

Brass frowned, but didn't question Sara. "You stay up here," he instructed Greg and Nick and the others gathered at the opening, watching anxiously, as he stepped down onto the wooden ladder. Distantly, she heard Nick call DB on his cell and relay the news that they'd found her.

Brass got down, and inching away from the wall Sara raised her right arm and the chain attached to it. Brass's eyes lowered to it and he registered a look of pain. Reaching into a pocket on his hip, he looked back up and stared at her in the dim light. When she glanced away uncomfortably, he moved his head a little closer, raised a shaky finger to her temple and pushed her hair back while he studied the lump and bruise there.

"That looks nasty," he said in a whisper, meeting her gaze, "you need to have it checked out." Finally locating his handcuff key, he motioned for her to raise her arm and then worked the key into the lock and set her free.

Giving him a small smile, Sara rubbed her sore wrist. "I'm fine."

He gave her the once-over. "Did they—" He looked back up and swallowed. "Did they…hurt you in any other way?"

She shook her head. "No," she replied. "I never saw them."

Brass sighed. "You've looked better." He tried to smile, but only managed a pained grimace.

Laughter bubbled out of Sara before tears filled her eyes, and blowing a deep fraught breath, Brass opened up his arms and enveloped her in a warm, tight embrace. "You scared me," he said, eventually pulling back. "I didn't think we'd find you in time."

She held his gaze steadily. " _I_ did."

Brass smiled and they stared at each other briefly before he pinched his lips and nodded his head.

"Captain," an officer called from above, "here's the blanket."

Brass looked up then caught the blanket that was dropped and wrapped it around Sara's shoulders protectively. "It's cold out there."

"Captain," another officer called. "We got the perps in custody, ready to go."

"You go ahead," Brass replied, looking up. "I'll catch up."

"A third guy's involved," Sara said.

"We know. He's in custody already. He's why we're here."

"Someone else is involved," she said. "Those guys, they're working for someone else, I know it. They're after money, Jim. They didn't know I was a CSI. Did you get a ransom demand?"

Brass looked perplexed. "No. Nothing. But don't worry about all that now, okay? We'll get to the bottom of it. We'll get the SOB, I swear to you we'll get him."

"Or her," she said, echoing words Grissom would have spoken.

"Or her," Brass concurred, but something in his expression told Sara he already had a male suspect in mind.

"Jim?" she asked, her look probing.

He sighed. "Gil thinks Armstrong's behind it."

"Gil knows about this?"

Brass nodded. "I had no choice, Sara. He and his mother were beginning to worry when they didn't hear from you and well, I thought he might know something."

"Betty," she said in a gasp of realisation. "We were supposed to meet."

"I know. It's okay. Gil emailed to let her know."

"What time is it?"

Brass angled his watch toward the trapdoor. "A little after three. AM. Too early to call him," he added with a smile, reading her mind.

She smiled.

"But at nine o'clock tomorrow morning, I promise we'll put a call through to the warden, okay? He'll let Gil know. I'm sure he'll call you as soon as he can. Come on," he added, when she gave a disappointed nod, "Let's get out of here."

Nick and Greg kept away while Brass tended to Sara but they were waiting at the top of the ladder when she climbed up and, misty-eyed, took their turn hugging her warmly and giving her words of comfort. They passed on words of relief from Finn, Morgan and DB who had stayed behind to mind the fort but had been integral nevertheless in finding her.

Sara took a moment to look around the sparsely-furnished room, littered with beer cans and empty food packaging. On the floor near the door were her boots, already bagged as evidence. Greg patted his hand to her arm, then stepped past her and out of the house.

"Did you find my watch and necklace?" she asked Nick.

"We did," he replied. "They're bagged up too."

Sara gave a nod of understanding. They were gifts from Grissom and she was glad the kidnappers hadn't disposed of them yet, assuming that had been their intention, of course.

"Your purse is at the lab," Nick went on. "Nothing was missing that we could tell."

Greg returned carrying his spare pair of work boots and dropped them to the floor in front of her. With a grateful smile, Sara slipped her feet into them. "Thanks, Greg."

"Sara, the ambulance is here," Brass said, and turning toward him she nodded her head. "I'm going to go back now. You going to be okay?"

Again, Sara nodded. Once upon a time, she would have insisted on going back to PD with him and interviewing her attackers, but not this time. Truth be told she was tired, and just glad that they'd found her so quickly and before any real harm could be done. Yes, she wanted to know the identity of her kidnappers and their motive, and she wanted all of them caught, but she trusted Brass and knew he wouldn't let it go until he had all the culprits behind bars.

"I'll stay with her," Greg said, and Brass gave a grateful nod.

The desert wind was cold when they followed Brass outside and Sara wrapped the blanket tighter around herself. They watched Brass get into his cruiser and head off into the dark night, before they made their way to the waiting ambulance.

"Where are we?" Sara asked.

"On a farm on Sloan Road." And when Sara just stared at him blankly, "It's off the I-15 South of Vegas. Not that far from yours actually."

Sara climbed into the back of the ambulance. The paramedics cleaned her up and did a few checks while Greg watched and when she insisted that she was fine they strapped her into the stretcher for transport. Greg sat down opposite her with one of the paramedics.

" _How_ did you find me?" she asked Greg as they set off on their way to Desert Palm Hospital.

"Good old Big Brother. Without the traffic cameras, we'd never have found you. Well, we would never have tracked the black Suburban that eventually led us here anyway. We watched hours of footage, Sara. All of us back at the lab, all day long, piecing it all together. Lucky your neighbour saw what happened and immediately called it in."

Her expression distant as she thought it all over, Sara nodded her head, only to turn away when tears built in her eyes. Greg hesitated only briefly when he reached out his hand to her and squeezed it tightly.

"I'm sure you'd rather Grissom was here instead of me," he said with a glance at the paramedic, and she chuckled through her tears.

"I miss him," she said, more tears falling. "I miss him so much."

"You want another hug?"

Smiling at him, she nodded her head and he leaned across and clumsily took her in his arms.

"What time is it?" she asked when he pulled back, a thought suddenly occurring.

Frowning, Greg swayed on his feet as he sat back down and checked his watch. "3.30 am. Why?"

"I hope they won't keep me in too long - at the hospital. I got to get home, and get ready."

"Ready for what?" he asked, his frown intensifying. "Not shift, I hope"

"No," she laughed. "My road trip, this afternoon. With Betty?" She touched her temple and winced. No amount of makeup would cover the bruise and hide it from Grissom. "I'm seeing my husband tomorrow, remember? And I can't wait."


	33. Chapter 33

A/N: I use the term Ad Seg in the chapter. It stands for Administrative Segregation, also known as the hole.

Ffnet wouldn't let me have the word 'Bit coins' in the story. It just wouldn't publish it. The 'Bit' kept being taken off if I spelt the word in one word, as it should be. Hence Bit coins. Also the email address doesn't show properly. It's a made-up address anyway.

* * *

Grissom barely slept, and when he did manage to doze off he would invariably startle awake, panic-stricken, the vivid images of Sara in various stages of danger hard to shake. Restless, he could not stand to lay or sit for long and ended up pacing the small cell, mumbling, berating himself for getting himself put in isolation. His feelings of guilt, blame and self-loathing had quickly manifested themselves, soon joined by overwhelming anger and frustration.

He cursed himself for his lack of self-control, for needlessly going after Baumstein when he now knew the culprit was Armstrong. Most of all he hated being without news. If only he had access to a phone, or his email, he bemoaned again, or at least be able to do more than just sit and fret. Sure, even if he hadn't got himself in the hole he would have had to wait until morning for a fresh update, but as it stood he expected to stay there for a whole twenty-four hours, longer even, in which case Sara could be dead and he wouldn't know it. The thought brought fresh tears to his eyes and he clenched his fists in frustration.

With a heavy sigh, he sat down at the edge of the cot, only to stand up a minute later and pace again. When Natalie took Sara and left her to die in the desert, he'd been part of the team. He'd been able to help find clues and solve the puzzle, eventually leading to her rescue. He'd felt responsible then too, after all Natalie had wanted to get back at him, but because he was in the midst of it all he'd never lost faith that they would find her. This time was different.

His one positive thought was that his cries for help the previous evening hadn't been ignored, and he hoped against all hope that his frantic message to the officer had made its way to the warden and then on to Brass. How did he not realise sooner that Armstrong was behind the kidnapping? How many hours had Brass and his men and the team wasted, following up dead-end leads because of him? Sitting back down, he hung his head in desperation.

The service hatch on the cell door opened suddenly, startling him. "Breakfast," an officer called, passing a tray through the slot.

Grissom hardly looked up. "I'm not hungry."

"Take it; you might change your mind."

"I don't think so."

"Take it, and eat it."

Grissom heaved a sigh, then walked up to the door and took the tray from the officer. It was a different officer from the one he'd spoken to the previous night, and he didn't think it worth asking if the message had been passed on. "Do you know how long I'm…going to be kept here for?" he asked instead.

"What? You don't like the place?" the officer teased, and then in a more compassionate tone, "Twenty-four hours."

Grissom paused; he'd done about half the time. "Do you think you could…" His words trailing, he shook his head. There was no point asking, the officer would never grant his request.

"Do you think you could what?" the officer asked.

"Nothing." Resigned, Grissom turned his back on the door and took the tray to the table. He glanced at the puddle of oatmeal and turned his face in disgust.

When, half-an-hour later, the officer came back to collect the untouched tray, Grissom wordlessly slid it back through the slot. Hours passed without any more human contact. His previous restlessness slowly made way to apathy and resignation until exhausted he finally lied down. If anything had happened to her, he kept telling himself, if they found her too late, he'd never forgive himself. It was his fault that she'd been taken. He shouldn't have taunted Armstrong the way he had. He only had himself to blame.

"Grissom!"

Grissom woke with a start. One officer stood at his bedside, another at the open cell door. "What time is it?" he asked, groggy and disoriented as he swung his legs over the edge of the cot.

"A little after ten."

"Ten?" he repeated, tiredly rubbing at his face.

"In the morning. Come on. Get up. The warden wants to see you."

Grissom's ears pricked up. Then his heart sank in realisation. Knowing his worst fears were about to be confirmed, he put his shoes on and stood up, and after straightening his uniform held out his wrists. The officer put the cuffs on, and he walked to the door, preceding the officer out. He watched the concrete floor as he walked, stopping when told to, moving forward when nudged. It took barely anytime, it seemed, until he was once again standing outside the warden's door, awaiting his fate.

Officer Packwood knocked on the door and they went in when instructed. Just like the previous day, the warden was sitting behind his desk and after a moment's pause Grissom walked up to him. "Grissom," he said, looking him up and down appraisingly.

Suddenly self-conscious at the haggard and pitiful appearance he projected, Grissom averted his eyes to the floor.

"I won't beat about the bush," Warden Keller said. "I heard from Captain Brass."

Readying himself for what he knew was to come, Grissom looked up and tried to swallow the constriction in his throat. It didn't budge.

"I had a meeting first thing this morning out of town, which is why you're only told now." The warden offered Grissom a small smile before quickly adding, "They found Sara."

Whatever composure Grissom was managing to keep right up to that point vanished.

"She's fine," the warden reassured quickly, visibly noticing Grissom's disarray.

The words didn't immediately register.

"She's _fine_ ," the warden repeated, more vehemently this time.

A took a second more for the words to sink in. "She's okay?" Grissom asked with disbelief.

"That's what Captain Brass's message said. I'm afraid I can't tell you any more than that. Except that she should be home, waiting for a call from you."

The wave of relief that swept through him was almost more than he could bear. Closing his eyes, he ran his cuffed hands down his face and let out a long, steady breath.

"Sit down," the warden instructed softly, and Grissom numbly did as bid.

"She's fine?" he asked in a whisper, still incredulous.

"She is."

Grissom swallowed back his tears, and nodded his head. "Thank you," he said, finally mustering a small, grateful smile. "Thank you for letting me know."

The warden nodded his head.

Grissom frowned. "If she's waiting for me to call, that means… You're not sending me back to the hole?"

The warden chuckled. "No. I think you've suffered enough punishment."

Grissom hurriedly pushed to his feet. "Thank you," he said again, not wanting to waste any more time. And then, as a second thought, "Did the officer pass on my message last night?"

"He did. I didn't speak to Captain Brass, he was out when I called, but I left a message with his office. Presumably he got told."

Grissom blew a breath, then gave a nod in understanding. He looked down at his cuffed hands, then back up to the warden.

"I expect you're ready to go back to your unit now. We'll deal with your disciplinary violation at a later date. But the behaviour you displayed yesterday isn't tolerated within these walls. Anymore, and you can kiss goodbye to any chance of early release."

Again, Grissom nodded. "I know."

"Take a shower and shave," the warden said, his stare penetrating. "You'll feel better afterwards."

Grissom gave a small smile. "I think I might call my wife first."

As soon as he reached his unit and the handcuffs were removed, he headed straight to the phones. He didn't have long to wait until his turn came. It was with shaky fingers that he lifted the receiver to his ear and pressed the numbers on the keypad. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The call soon connected, ringing only once before Sara picked up.

"I thought you'd never call," she said, laughing, by way of greeting.

The tears that he'd suppressed for so long finally spilled at the sound of her voice.

"Another hour, and I was gone."

"Gone where?" he asked with surprise, finally finding his voice.

"We got a date, remember?" Her voice softened. "A date I wouldn't miss for the world."

Closing his eyes, Grissom leaned his head against the wall above the phone. "I'm sorry I'm calling so late. I only just found out."

"Oh, Gil. Jim said he left a message hours ago. And I sent you an email."

Unwilling to confess that he'd spent the night in solitary confinement, Grissom didn't know what else to reply than a weak, "Sorry." And then, his emotion finally spilling, "Oh, honey, I was so scared. I was so sure I'd lost you."

"Not just yet," she replied after a beat, tears in her voice.

Trying to reign in his emotion, he took in a deep breath he let out very slowly.

"I take it you haven't spoken to Jim, then," she went on, filling the silence.

"No. I wanted to speak to you first. How are you? Are you hurt?" The last word died on his lips.

"I'm fine. I just got a bump on the head. I went to the hospital and got it checked out. I'm fine, so don't worry alright?"

He scoffed. "Easier said than done."

"Well, you can see for yourself tomorrow," she went on, in a light, carefree voice. "The bruise makes it look worse than it is." Before he could respond, she added in a more earnest tone, "They jumped me from behind, Gil. I never saw them coming."

"How many?"

"Three. Well, one stayed behind the wheel. Local guys, served time in the county jail for various misdemeanour charges. They're working for someone else, that's for sure, but they claim they don't know who. Maintain that they were contacted by phone and received cash in the post to take and keep me in a safe place until further instructions. They're – _we're_ – still waiting on those. They'd been told where we lived, what I looked like, but they didn't know I was a CSI. Can you believe that?"

Grissom listened intently as she spoke. She seemed strangely detached, as though she were talking about a case, about someone else's abduction. He wanted to ask her where they'd kept her and in what condition, whether they'd been abusive to her, but he didn't want to upset her, or have her relive her ordeal on the phone when words were all he had to offer to comfort her. They could talk about it all when they next saw each other. Besides, she'd have given Jim a statement. He could always find out all the detail from him later.

"That _is_ strange," he agreed. "They'd only need to look your name up on the internet to know who you are."

"They said the name they were given was Sara Grissom. It's only when they found my work badge that they found out who I was. They also knew you're…"

"I'm what?" he prompted when she faltered.

"In prison."

Grissom considered her words. It all pointed toward the fact that her abduction didn't have anything to do with their jobs but with him being in prison.

"What are you thinking?" she asked when he lapsed into silence.

"That you got kidnapped because of me. To get back at me. For something I've done while inside."

"Armstrong's in the pen in Atlanta. Jim spoke to the warden there. They didn't find anything pertinent."

He sighed, then made sure no one was within earshot. "Armstrong's got links to gangs and organised crime. He knows how to cover his tracks."

"Yeah, well, the three guys that took me aren't related to any gangs. Hell, they're the wrong skin colour to be working for Armstrong. And anyways, I can't help thinking that if he was behind the kidnapping we'd know by now and I wouldn't have gotten off so lightly."

Thinking that was most probably true, Grissom cast his eyes down in shame.

"They were promised a lot more cash at the end, Gil," she went on. "Whenever – and whatever – the end should have been."

Grissom refocused. "I take it there's still no sign of a ransom demand?"

"No. Nothing. All we've got is the number of a prepaid, disposable cell."

"Which as we know is very hard to trace."

"Beyond what we can do at the lab anyway."

Grissom made a musing sound. "I worry it's not over, Sara. Has Jim got men watching the house?"

There was a pause, and Grissom knew the answer to be negative. "I'm all packed," she said. "Your Mom and I are leaving soon, what does it matter?" The defensiveness in her tone told her she'd already had that argument with Brass and not to argue the point further.

"I think that maybe you should postpone the visit, Sara."

"What?"

"You need to give yourself time—"

"Time for what?" she challenged.

"It's a long drive and you suffered a tough ordeal."

"I'm fine," she insisted. "The docs gave me the all clear."

"They did, did they?" He didn't hide the scepticism from his tone.

"What I need is to see you, Gil."

"Oh, Sara, I want nothing more than to see you and hold you in my arms but—"

"No buts. Besides, your mom said she'd do some of the driving. And if I'm not in Vegas then the baddies can't get to me."

Although he didn't like the fact that she was making light of the situation, her stubborn streak made him smile. "I'm not going to change your mind, am I?" he asked softly.

"No, you're not," she replied just as softly.

"Then at least promise me that you'll take Mom's car. If there are more guys after you and they see your car on the drive it might put them off your scent. Besides, I don't think Mom's ever driven a hybrid. She'll be more comfortable, more confident driving her own car."

There was a beat in silence. "That I can agree to," she said finally.

"Thank you."

They spoke a little longer, about this and that but mainly about how much they looked forward to seeing each other the next day, before Sara said she had to go if she wanted to keep to the schedule she and Betty had agreed to.

"You take good care," he said with a heavy heart. "And drive safely. If you think someone's following you, or notice anything suspect, promise me you'll go to a safe place and let Jim know."

"I promise."

"And please take Mom's car."

"I will." She paused. "I'll see you tomorrow morning, okay?"

The thought of seeing her so soon made him emotional again. "I can't wait."

"I love you."

"I love you too."

There was a pause. Then he heard a click, and she was gone.

Grissom sighed and glancing over his shoulder, quickly, surreptitiously, dialled Brass's number. The call rang, and when the answerphone clicked on he hung up without leaving a message. Finally putting the receiver down, he took a moment to catch his breath before going to his dorm. It was lunchtime, and the place was quiet. He had a shower, put on a clean uniform and then after studying his reflection in the mirror decided on a haircut and shave.

He didn't want Sara – or his mother for that matter – to think he wasn't doing well. After the trip to the barber's, he felt calmer, more like his old self again. Feeling hungry, he ate a pack of ramen noodles, left over from payment he'd received for some legal work he'd done for an inmate the previous week. Early afternoon, he was sitting on his bed, rereading one of his mother's letters, when someone walked up to his bunk. Looking up, he peered at Mitch over the rim of his glasses.

"I'm glad they didn't keep you in the hole the full twenty-four hours," Mitch said. "It's always the last six that get to me."

Removing his glasses, which he automatically slipped in his uniform breast pocket, Grissom nodded his head. "Listen, Mitch," he said after a beat.

"No. You listen. I want you to believe me when I say I have nothing to do with your wife's disappearance. I don't know—"

Grissom raised his hand, cutting him off. "I know it wasn't you. They found Sara. The…the police did." He shrugged, sighed. "I was wrong to accuse you without proof. I'm sorry I took my frustrations out on you last night. I don't know what came over me." He rubbed his hand to his forehead. "I'm not normally this…hot-headed. Or angry."

"That's prison life for you."

"Still, I shouldn't have attacked you the way I did."

Mitch nodded. "Hey, no harm done. I go to dark places too every once in a while. I know what it's like."

Grissom gave a silent nod.

"So, huh, you want to play some chess?"

"Do you mind if I pass? I'm quite…tired. I don't think I could put two moves together, let alone win the game. Later maybe?"

Mitch smiled. "Sure. Didn't sleep much in Ad Seg, did you?"

"No." Grissom gave a wan smile, averted his eyes.

Mitch nodded. "Okay. I'll catch you later then."

An officer walked up to the pair. Mitch turned toward him while frowning Grissom pushed to his feet. "The warden wants to see you," the officer said, holding a cop-out to Grissom.

Grissom's heart sank. Glancing at Mitch, he took the proffered slip of paper from the officer. "Now?"

"Yep."

What now, he wondered? Had something else happened to Sara? She and his mother should be well on their way by now. Maybe they'd been involved in a traffic collision, he thought, or the bump on her head hadn't been so small after all. Maybe Sara had played down her symptoms on the phone not to alarm him. Maybe the concussion had led to a bleed. She'd have felt dizzy, maybe she'd even lost consciousness at the wheel and crashed the car. He knew their coming hadn't been a good idea. He should have insisted more. He should have gotten her to change her mind and delay the visit.

Giving his head a shake, he tried to dispel the negative thoughts. To no avail. The officer left. Mitch patted his shoulder comfortingly before he left too, and without wasting time Grissom tidied his stuff away and headed to the correctional officers' office. Before long, he was once again standing behind the warden's door with Officer Packwood knocking. His cuffed hands were shaking.

"He's just arrived," Warden Keller said aloud, as soon as Grissom and Officer Packwood entered, before silently motioning for Packwood to take the handcuffs off Grissom.

"Hi, Gil," Brass said through the speakerphone.

Grissom's heartbeat quickened in trepidation. "Jim?" he said, looking between the phone and the warden with puzzlement, "What's going on? Has something happened to Sara? Did she and Mom have an accident? I spoke to Sara earlier and she said—"

"Sara's fine, Gil," Brass said, cutting him off, "they both are." And then, "Warden Keller, show him the letter please."

Grissom looked from the phone to Keller. The warden hesitated only briefly before he sighed and picked up a document in front of him. Grissom's gaze flicked down to it. It appeared to be a letter of sorts, which had been slipped in a clear plastic document wallet.

"This letter, addressed to you, was sent here," the warden told Grissom. "It was opened by our mailroom staff an hour or so ago."

Grissom frowned. Did the letter contain contraband, he wondered? Who had sent it? But if it did, why call Brass? Grissom took the proffered letter while feeling his pockets for his glasses. Finally locating them, he put them on. The letter trembling in his hands, he began to read it.

 _Mr Grissom,_

 _As you no doubt know by now your wife has been kidnapped._

 _At present, she is well and safe._

 _Pay the ransom in Bit coins and she will be released._

 _You have 72 hours to send an email to moneypenny at hushmail . com for further instructions._

Grissom shook his head, then read the letter over. Both Brass and Keller kept silent while he processed the news, presumingly waiting for his reaction.

"I looked it up, Gil," Brass said, speaking first. "Bit coins are a cryptographic digital currency."

"I know what they are," Grissom said, impatiently. "Computer hackers use them to get paid. If you know what you're doing it's untraceable." In his eyes, the note confirmed Armstrong wasn't behind the kidnapping; criminals like him didn't deal in Bit coins or call themselves Moneypenny. Someone else wanted to cause him harm, and he had no idea who. Feeling dizzy suddenly, hot under the collar, he wiped at his eyes under the glasses. "May I sit down?"

"Sure," the warden told him. "Officer Packwood, can you get Mr Grissom a glass of water please?"

"I called the lab," Brass went on as the officer left the office. "Archie's away on vacation, so I called Greg at home. He said that Hushmail is an anonymous web-based mail service. Difficult to trace. Greg says the lab doesn't have the resources or the know-how. We're going to need to get the feds involved."

Grissom removed his glasses and rubbed his face, hesitated only briefly when he said, "Call Catherine. She has the resources. She'll help."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Whatever you got to do, just do it."

"Okay."

"Have you told Sara about any of this?"

"No. I—I felt it best not to. She's on her way over to see you and…well, I didn't want to add to her ordeal. I mean, this ransom demand is nothing more than evidence at this point, another piece of the puzzle. We now have a name and confirmation that someone else is involved, a possible way to locate this…Moneypenny, whoever the hell they are."

"And you're sure she's safe? Sara, I mean."

"She is," Brass replied. "I spoke to her myself a few minutes ago. They'd just crossed the state line."

Officer Packwood returned, placing a glass of water on the desk corner in front of Grissom. Grissom thanked him before turning the letter over and studying it in detail. The envelope had been placed in the wallet too. With a little luck they might recover some fingerprints. It looked like generic printing paper, cheap, available everywhere. This Moneypenny person had typed the demand, so they wouldn't be able to glean any clues from the handwriting. And without a printer to match it to, ink analysis would be pretty useless too.

"The mail clerk put the letter and envelope in the wallet," the warden said, drawing him out of his thoughts. "Thought there might be fingerprints on it."

Carefully setting the letter down on the desk, Grissom nodded his head, then reached for the water. "He was right, there could be. He did well."

" _She_ did well," the warden amended quietly, while Grissom took a few sips.

"Her prints will be in the system," Brass said, "It'll be easy to eliminate her."

"We can have the letter couriered directly over to you," Keller interjected. "If you give me the address."

"Thank you. I'd appreciate that. Gil? You remember it?" Brass went on, tongue-in-cheek.

Grissom didn't take the bait. "The stamp's still on the envelope," he remarked instead, looking up toward the warden with surprise.

"The mail clerk hadn't gotten around to cutting it out yet."

Carefully, he pulled the two sides of the plastic wallet apart and leaning in tried to make out the postmark on the side of the envelope that wasn't visible without damaging any latent prints. "The postmark's readable," he told Brass, peering at it intently. "I think it says Jackson, Mississippi. It was posted the day before yesterday."

"That's the day before they took Sara," Brass remarked.

"So they knew where I was _before_ they took her."

"The missing letter still bothering you?"

"I don't know. I take it you didn't find it?"

"No. Sara said she was at the mailbox, reading it. She thinks it dropped to the floor when she struggled. We've searched the farm where we found her and the perps' residences from top to bottom, we didn't find it."

It could have been blown away, Grissom thought, or picked up and put in the trash. "Regardless," he said, "they probably factored in how long it would take for the letter to reach me, which would explain why Sara was only taken the following day."

Brass sighed. "Whichever way you look at it, you and Sara were targeted for a reason, but it's not work related as they obviously didn't know you were law-enforcement."

"Well," Grissom reasoned, "They didn't know _Sara_ was law-enforcement. I think that's because of the discrepancy in surnames. Whoever sent the ransom demand knows their way around a computer, Jim. They would have done their research. Most criminals don't deal in Bit coins, or use Hushmail accounts."

"Well, if that's the case they kept that knowledge to themselves. The three goons I've got in custody certainly don't know shit. Looks like the kidnapping was a step up for them, a step too far, the way they went about it." Brass paused. "What about Jackson, Mississippi? Does the place mean anything to you?"

"No, not really. But it could just be a drop off point. And you're sure Armstrong isn't behind it?"

"As sure as I can be. Doesn't mean that another inmate you've crossed paths with isn't involved though."

Grissom thought about that for a moment, but aside from Armstrong he came up blank. For a long time he'd kept himself to himself and his interaction with the rest of the inmates to the strict minimum. He thought about Manuel then, but shook his head. Sure, Manuel knew about Sara and he had their home address in Vegas. No. He gave his head another shake.

The idea was simply inconceivable. He prided himself on being a good judge of character. Manuel had been the only person he had been close to, his only ally inside the walls, almost a son. They'd looked out for each other. Besides, Sara had gotten news from him not so long back; he was still in South Fork Forest Camp, doing well, by his account anyway. He reached for the letter, once again examining it for clues.

"Gil? What are you thinking?" Brass asked, when silence stretched on the line.

He was thinking that if he was granted access to graphite, clear plastic tape and a camera he could process the letter himself. The prints – provided he lifted any – could be photographed, scanned into a computer and emailed directly to Mandy, saving valuable hours. Did he still have the skills, he wondered then? What if he made a mess of it and destroyed whatever chances they had of identifying their blackmailer?

"It's not a good idea, Gil," Brass said, refocusing Grissom suddenly. "I don't want anything to jeopardise the case. You're not on the payroll anymore, and any evidence you touched would be compromised and inadmissible in court. Moneypenny doesn't know we found Sara. They still believe the plan is going ahead. We have Dooley's phone in evidence, and there hasn't been any new messages."

Grissom's ears pricked up. "Dooley?"

"He's one of the guys we got in custody, the ringleader. He said that the plan was to take Sara and leave her alone on the farm until they got more instructions. When they found out she was law-enforcement they panicked and thought it safer to stay and watch her."

Grissom looked up. "Sara said this…Moneypenny used a burner."

"Yeah. Whoever they are covered their tracks alright."

"So what do we do now?"

"We send this Moneypenny the email they're waiting for, and wait for further instructions."

"I can't send that email," Grissom said, looking at the warden for confirmation. "Not from here anyway. I'm not allowed to."

" _We_ can," Brass said. "If they can send an untraceable email, so can we. I say we get this show on the road, and we do it now."


	34. Chapter 34

Sara stepped into the hotel breakfast room, her eyes making straight for Betty sitting alone at a table by the window, nursing a cup of coffee. The two women had agreed to meet for breakfast at 6.00am so they could leave promptly at 6.30 in order to beat the traffic and the lines once they reached the prison. Exhausted by the previous day's events and long drive, Sara had taken a couple of painkillers before catching an early night and a good night's sleep, but she had a feeling it hadn't been the case for her mother-in-law.

Betty's expression was clouded, her gaze distant as she stared unseeingly in front of her, probably thinking of her son and their impeding reunion. Did she worry Grissom would notice the weight she'd lost recently? She wore dark pants, a light blue knitted sweater and comfortable shoes. Her hair was the same as ever, her curls trimmed short and stylishly. Idly, Sara wondered whether she'd look as good when she was the same age.

Taking a breath, she walked up to the table and gently touched Betty on the arm to make her presence known. Looking up with a slight start, Betty plastered a warm smile on her face, a smile Sara returned fondly. Instinctively, she leaned down and the two women hugged. Taking the seat across from her, she pointed toward the older woman and making her facial expression enquiring gave her a thumbs-up. "Is everything okay?"

Betty's smile wavered, but she nodded her head nonetheless, only to shrug her shoulders when Sara's gaze narrowed probingly. "I'm a little nervous," she finally admitted with her hands.

Sara extended the thumb and index fingers of her right hand and brought them closer together. "Only a little, huh?"

Betty's smile returned and her shoulders rose before she grudgingly signed, "I've never been to a prison."

Sara's smile faded, and she nodded her head in understanding. The last time Betty had seen her son he had been in a hospital bed, which apart from the extra security and officers' presence had been the same as visiting any other patient in hospital. Visiting Grissom in prison was bound to be daunting; after all, it had been for Sara the first time too, even though she had visited plenty of inmates over the years.

She had already explained to Betty about the many strict security checks, about the dos and don'ts of the visiting room and what to expect. Betty had been worried that Grissom wouldn't be able to sign if he wore handcuffs, and she'd reassured her that she'd never seen him in handcuffs before. There would be no glass separating them from him, she'd written on a piece of paper as explanation, or telephones. They would be able to hug him and sit with him at a table, and move freely within the visitation area. It wasn't like on the television, she'd finally written.

"Gil says…it's a bit like…being in college," she signed finally, hoping to dispel the last of Betty's worries.

Betty paused, considering. "But with guards."

Flashing an awkward smile, Sara nodded her head sombrely. "It's going to be busy." She was going to add noisy but stopped herself. The noise wouldn't be an issue for Betty but perhaps the silence would, she figured then, as sometimes the not-knowing, not-understanding what was going on all around was worse.

"I worry about the other prisoners there, watching," Betty signed.

Betty had never struck Sara as being self-conscious or embarrassed about her impairment and having to sign in public. Quite the opposite in fact. And even now, Sara thought, they were bound to be attracting looks and stares and it didn't seem to matter. It certainly didn't bother Sara, and she was sure it didn't bother Grissom either. Slightly puzzled but nodding that she understood, Sara reached for Betty's hands and after giving them a reassuring squeeze signed, "The other prisoners won't notice us. They'll just be too happy to see their loved ones too."

Betty's nod was far from being convinced. "I worry that it'll cause problems for Gil."

Sara frowned. "Why should it be a problem that he has a hearing-impaired mother and signs?" she asked with slow, hesitant hands, looking intensely puzzled.

"It'll make him stand out," Betty signed back. "I read it's not good to stand out in prison."

Sara sighed. "It's going to be fine," she signed emphatically. "Gil will be so happy to see you – to see us, the rest…" Faltering, she waved her hand about the breakfast room, hoping Betty would glean from that the word surroundings, "isn't important." She paused, composed her next signs carefully. "I'll be there with you all the time, or Gil will. You won't ever be left alone."

Betty paused, hesitating. "You'll want time alone with him, Sara."

Sara lifted a hand she shook in front of her. "No. Not today anyway." Pausing, she thought of the right signs. "Today, we're staying as a family. Whatever Gil and I have to say we'll say in front of you."

Betty's expression turned mischievous, and worried she'd signed something wrong Sara frowned.

"I promise I won't listen," Betty signed. "Or lipread."

Sara's frown softened into a smile of understanding. Betty was making a joke. "I promise to keep the sweet talking," she signed, finger spelling the last two words, "to a minimum."

Betty laughed, and feigning a look of embarrassment fanned her cheeks, as though trying to cool herself down. "But I wasn't just talking about that," she went on, her expression once again sober. "I was thinking about your…" Her gaze averting suddenly, she dropped her hands.

Sara touched her on the arm. "What is it?"

Betty sighed. "The kidnapping. Gil will want to talk about that. He'll want to know all the details."

Sara nodded. "I won't tell him anything that you can't know." Pausing, she gave her mother-in-law a soft smile. "Besides, I trust you. I know you won't repeat anything we say."

Smiling widely, Betty caught Sara's hands in hers and squeezed them warmly. Her nod this time was more emphatic. "You're right," she signed. "I'm sorry." Her wide smile returning, she bent her middle fingers at the large knuckle while keeping all her other fingers extended and rotated her hands in alternate circles.

Sara laughed. "Me too. I'm excited too."

Betty's expression registered a look of pain as she looked pointedly at Sara's head. "How's the head?"

"The head's fine," she replied. The Tylenol tablets she was taking certainly helped. Pausing, she brought her fingers to the tender spot on her temple. She'd applied a little concealer to cover up the bruise, or at least make it less visible, but knew she had done a poor job of it. "Is it really noticeable?"

Betty extended the thumb and index fingers of her right hand and brought them closer together. "A little."

Sara nodded, then sighed. Maybe Grissom was right and they should have waited until the next week to visit; that way she would have looked better for him. "Come on," she then signed, plastering a smile on her face as pushing to her feet she motioned toward the buffet table, "Let's get some breakfast so we can get going."

With a nod, Betty stood up and they joined the short line at the hot food counter. They each got a tray and helped themselves to a copious breakfast. During her brief the previous day, Sara had also told Betty about the lack of access to decent food while visiting and how expensive it all was.

The traffic was fluid at that time of the morning and they got to Taft by 7.45. The GPS instructions took them through the town and then out again headed south on Highway 33. Before long, they were taking a left turn off the main road onto Cadet Road toward the correctional institution. Grissom had written that the facility was in the middle of the desert, and he was right. There was nothing to see for miles except the prison itself and some kind of oil refinery.

Once inside the prison complex, she turned off the GPS and drove a short way along Prison Road, following the signs to the minimum-security facility and soon joining a line of five cars waiting at the visitors' entrance gate. A sign asked drivers to cut the engine while they waited, and Sara did as bid. The Camp must be on the other side, she thought, glancing at the tall perimeter fence directly ahead of them.

Looking anxious, Betty craned her neck and looked all around and beyond to the car lot. Sara touched her on the arm before smiling when the older woman turned toward her. "Friday is a popular day for visiting," she signed. "It's cheaper than at the weekend."

Betty frowned. "Cheaper? How?"

Sara paused, then grabbed her purse from the backseat and took out the pocket notebook she kept there and a pen.

 _It costs Gil 2 points per hour per visitor on a weekday and 3 points on the weekend,_ she wrote, and looked back up to Betty expectantly.

"And how many points does Gil have?" Betty signed.

"He gets 40 points every month."

"And we can stay until 3pm, right?"

Sara nodded her assent. "Unless it gets too busy."

"What happens then?"

"The first people to arrive are the first ones to leave."

Betty nodded her head sombrely. Then her brow creased slightly, and Sara knew she was doing the math in her head. Reaching for the notebook, Betty wrote, _So the two of us visiting today and tomorrow is costing Gil all his visiting time for this month?_

"That's right," Sara signed. "And we won't be able to stay for the full six hours tomorrow."

Betty's shoulders drooped. "It's not much, is it?"

Sara shook her head sadly. "No, it's not. But remember," she added with a smile, "he hasn't got long left of his sentence to serve."

Giving Sara a grateful smile, Betty nodded her head.

The car in front moved forward, and after starting her engine Sara did the same. A look in the rearview mirror told her there were another five cars waiting behind them now. Hopefully, the visitation room wouldn't get too busy, or they might have to leave early on both days.

The previous day, Sara had called the facility to notify them of the change in vehicles and of Betty's car registration number, and she was glad to see that when their turn finally came some half-hour later the information had been passed on to the officers at the gate and there would be no unexpected delays.

After presenting all the appropriate documents, the two women stepped out of the car and watched two officers conduct their careful checks for contraband, drugs and weapons. They proceeded to search inside the car, inspected the trunk and under the hood, as well as the undercarriage. Betty looked tense all the while, and Sara linked her arm through hers comfortingly.

"It's okay," she signed, making an O followed by a fast K with the fingers of one hand, and smiled. "It's all perfectly normal." And then in an attempt to lighten the mood, "They won't find anything illegal, will they?"

Betty's face softening, she shook her head in reply. Then she frowned, adding with quick fingers, "I don't think so anyway."

Once they were cleared for entry, Sara followed the officer's directions to the visitation building and parked in the first available spot. She reminded Betty to take her ID and 'I'm a deaf person' card inside the building, and nothing else. She then turned off her cell, took her ID and the plastic bag full of change out of her purse before stowing it and Betty's purse in the trunk.

"Ready?"

Betty blew a breath then nodded her head, and they set off across the lot toward the entrance.

"It's just like security at an airport," Sara signed as they walked. "And just as busy. Just do everything I do."

Betty gave a tense nod. Inside the building, they joined yet another line. When their turns came, Sara went first. They put the few items they had with them in a tray and through the x-ray machine and walked through the metal detector. Both women were pat-searched by a female officer, Betty's glasses inspected independently. Once they'd retrieved their belongings, they joined another line and waited their turn to see the duty officer. He examined their IDs, checked their names against the visitors list, before giving them each a slip of paper with a table number on it they needed to keep on them at all times.

By nine o'clock, they were sitting in the crowded waiting room. Betty stared at a point by her feet while Sara watched the officer guarding the door, willing him with her stare to let them through to the visitation area. A toddler slept in his mother's arms on the opposite side of the room, and she wondered how far they'd had to travel in order to see their loved one. An elderly man, using two sticks to walk, finally came in, helped by an officer. Sara stood up to give him her seat and checked her watch, wondering if he was the reason behind the delay. It was 9.15.

Please, don't let there be a lockdown, she thought. All visiting would be cancelled, and they would have come all this way for nothing.

She walked over to the display board and once again checked the location of their table on the plan. Then she looked over at Betty, looking as tense as ever, and gave her a small, comforting smile. The toddler woke up and began to cry. His mother stood up and began rocking on the spot to try to soothe him. At last, the officer got a call on his radio, and Sara held her breath. When he turned toward the door, Sara smiled and gave Betty a small thumbs-up.

Everyone stood, moving at once toward the officer, except for Sara and Betty who hung back a little. It wouldn't make a difference whether they went in first or last, as inmates were only allowed in once all the visitors were seated at their allocated table. Betty's eyes darted about the place anxiously as she moved forward hesitantly, and Sara pointed toward their table at the back of the room. The two women dutifully sat down and, as they waited, she reached for Betty's hand and gave it a warm squeeze.

A minute later, the inmates came in through a different door, one by one, silent and orderly. Sara's face lit up as soon as she glimpsed her husband in the line. Looking serious, he scanned the large room with his eyes, and a wide smile finally breaking across his face when he located them raised his hand in a happy wave. Sara glanced at Betty who, beaming despite the tears in her eyes, returned the wave. This meeting meant as much to Grissom as it did to his mother.

Sara stood as soon as he reached their table. His gaze narrowed in on the bruise on her temple, but she didn't give him time to comment on it. She just opened out her arms and he fell in her embrace for a long, heartfelt hug before pulling back slightly for a kiss on the lips. Eyes closed and foreheads touching, they held each other a while longer. When finally they broke apart Betty hesitantly stood up, and moving toward her Grissom gave her a trembling smile. Tears formed in both their eyes as they wrapped their arms tightly around each other.

The sight of mother and son finally reuniting brought tears to Sara's eyes too. She looked away, not because she was embarrassed or felt she was intruding, but because she wanted to give them a moment together, even if they stood in the middle of the crowded room. She realised then that if Betty had been nervous of the visit it wasn't just because she'd be seeing her son in prison, but because, aside from the brief hospital visit a couple of months back, she hadn't seen him in two, probably very long, years.

"I'm so glad you're both here," he signed and said in a choked voice, on pulling back from his mother's embrace, his watery gaze flicking between the two women lovingly. Wiping at his eyes, he cast a look around the room self-consciously.

"We're glad to be here," Sara said, grabbing his hand, which he squeezed. Wanting to lighten the mood a little, she gave him a very obvious once-over. "I told your Mom you'd be wearing sweats."

Laughing, Grissom let his eyes caress her face. "I thought I'd dress up," he said, dropping Sara's hand to sign the words to his mother, "You know, and look good for you two ladies."

Betty was watching her son carefully. Her wide, happy smile had returned, but Sara glimpsed pain in her eyes too. Was it because of the khaki and white uniform he was wearing? Or because it pained her to see him in a place like this? Or maybe she could see what Sara saw; the tired face and dark circles under his eyes not quite concealed behind the happy exterior and hinting at a different truth that the carefree one he was trying to portray. It must be as though for him to see his mother here, as it was for her.

"You're looking well," Grissom told his mother with his hands, his expression soft and caring, as they all sat down around the round table.

"You too," she signed back, "Even if you've lost more weight."

Betty's forthrightness made Sara smile.

His lips twisting with displeasure, he glanced at Sara. "It's the hair," he signed with a cheeky wink toward his mother as he touched his cropped hair, "I had it done especially for you." His eyes flicked between the pair before he pointedly looked at Sara's bruise and winced. "I wish I could say the same about you."

Sara felt her hand to her temple and pulled a face. "It's not as bad as it looks."

Grissom sighed, then nodded his head resignedly. He was looking conflicted, and Sara could tell he wanted to ask her about the abduction. He didn't. Instead, he turned toward his mother and smiled. "How was the journey?" he then asked, both with words and with his hands.

"It was fine," both women replied at the same time, one with hands and the other aloud.

"And you took your car?" he signed to his mother, but didn't say, causing Sara to shake her head in disbelief.

Glancing at Sara from the corner of her eyes, Betty nodded her head.

"What?" Sara retorted in a chuckle, making a show of looking and sounding aggrieved as she signed, "You don't trust me?"

Grissom pulled a face that made his mother laugh, and Sara laughed too.

"And you don't think anyone followed you?" he went on, his expression sobering.

Sara shook her head. "No. I kept one eye on the rearview mirror as I drove. Lucky we didn't crash actually."

Grissom pulled another face, then looked at his mother who was watching the exchange intently and flashed another smile. He looked sad all of a sudden, almost as if seeing them there was bringing about thoughts and feelings he'd rather have kept hidden.

"How are you?" he asked his mother emphatically. "I've been so worried. Your illness—"

Betty reached out her hands and, his pained look intensifying, Grissom grasped them tightly, instantly.

"I'm fine, much better now," she then signed.

The two of them signed back and forth for a while, Grissom's signing slow and hesitant at times, to such an extent that Sara had no trouble following their conversation. They mainly talked about Betty's health, about the checks she'd had done and her last visit with her physician. Grissom grew somewhat emotional as he watched his mother talk and yet again apologised for not being there for her when she most needed him. From his letters to her, Sara knew how much that played on his mind and how guilty he felt about not being a good son.

Betty lifted her hand to his face and stroked it to his cheek affectionately. "I wouldn't want any other son," she signed. "You make me so proud. Even being in prison…" Her shoulders rising, she licked her lips a few times. "I know it's hard, for you, for me, and for Sara, but it was the right thing to do."

Grissom glanced at Sara before averting his eyes and nodding his head. She hoped he believed what his mother was telling him; she hoped too that having his mother tell him all this in person would lessen his feelings of guilt and boost his self-worth. She looked over at Betty, and the two shared a smile.

"And besides," Betty went on brightly when he looked back up, "Sara has been looking after me just fine." She gave Sara a fond smile. "So don't worry. There's plenty of life left in these old bones."

Pinching his lips to hide his growing emotion, Grissom nodded his head. Sara couldn't tell whether Betty was being totally honest with her son, she wasn't privy to any details herself so she couldn't be sure, but she certainly hoped so.

Grissom hesitated briefly. Then looking over at Sara, he reached one hand to her and the other one to his mother. Both women took hold of the proffered hand and squeezed it tightly. The poignancy and symbolism of his gesture caught both women unawares, and they remained like this, connected and silent in the noisy room for a few seconds.

"So," Betty signed after wiping a rogue tear from her eyes, "Sara tells me this place is just like college."

Grissom burst out laughing. He looked at Sara, who shrugged matter-of-factly, then back at his mother. "Without all the studying," he signed back, "Unfortunately."

"But there's a library," Sara chipped in, flicking her eyes between Grissom and Betty, glad that they were moving on to a lighter topic. "Larger than at Beaumont." When she turned back to Grissom, she found him watching her intently, a fond look on his face.

"You okay?" she asked with her eyes.

His smile widening he gave her a nod before refocusing once again on his mother. "The library here is great," he told his mother. "I spend a lot of time there. A lot of inmates here are educated so the library is a popular place, a meeting place. It gets very crowded and good books are in high demand. I'm reading Martin Luther King…"

Sara's gaze narrowed, her attention wandering from what he was signing, as an idea popped into her head. He was due a care package soon, and maybe she could include a couple of recent books he'd be interested in and wouldn't have access to at the library. Maybe a book on gardens and gardening since he missed his old prison job so much. She smiled, or on growing plants and flowers since he enjoyed sketching them for her.

"And the softball?" Betty was asking with her hands, her expression curious, when Sara tuned back in to the conversation.

Grissom narrowed his gaze at Sara, and she gave him a cheerful shrug.

"I could never get him to join any teams when he was a boy," Betty then signed, as an aside to Sara.

Grissom pulled a face. "I am here, you know," he signed, feigning displeasure.

Sara and Betty laughed. Mother and son chatted some more, and Sara looked around the visitation room with interest. There were far fewer officers scattered about than in Beaumont, and they appeared more laid-back, less tense and watchful, as if they didn't expect any trouble. They didn't seem to mind all the handholding either. The inmates seemed more relaxed too, less threatening, which somewhat warmed her heart. She noticed the old man she'd given up her seat for earlier on the opposite side of the room, talking to a man of Grissom's age. Father and son, maybe?

"You okay?" Grissom asked, and when she refocused she found both her companions watching her intently.

She plastered a smile on her face. "Sure." And then looking at Betty she rotated a closed fist to her chest a couple of times. "Sorry. I was miles away."

Betty gave Sara a warm smile, then signed that she needed the bathroom and pushed to her feet. Grissom stood too, only to sit back down when a nearby officer raised a preventative brow.

"Are you going to be okay?" Grissom signed to his mother, glancing at Sara for help.

Sara stood up. "It's okay. I'll go with her."

Betty touched Sara on the arm. "No, you stay here with Gil," she signed vehemently. "I'll be fine."

Grissom looked around the room, and Sara realised that it was his first time in the visitation room too. "The bathrooms are over there," he signed and pointed.

Betty nodded her head, and Grissom and Sara both watched as she made her way over.

"Do you want me to go with her?" she then asked, turning back toward her husband.

"No," he said, holding her gaze softly. "Stay. There's something I want to talk to you about. It'll be easier if Mom's not here." Giving her a hesitant smile, he pushed his hand to the middle of the table toward her.

Sara's gaze lowered to it, and sitting back down she took it. "What is it?" she asked, when he remained silent, stroking his fingers apprehensively. "More bad news?"

Casting an eye around them, Grissom blew out a breath. "Have you spoken to Jim?" he then asked, keeping his voice low.

Frowning, Sara dropped his hand. "I sent him a text this morning, but I haven't spoken to him since yesterday." Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Why?"

Grissom sighed. "There was a letter in the mail for me yesterday. A ransom demand."

Sara's gaze widened. "They sent it here?"

Grissom shrugged. "Either they didn't know the mail would be opened and checked before it got to me, or they didn't care."

Sara considered his words. "What did it say?"

"Very little. The usual. They want money for your release." He scoffed in disbelief. "But listen to this. They want to be paid in Bit coins."

"Bit coins?" she repeated with surprise.

He nodded. "They included an email address I'm supposed to write to. Presumably so they could give me instructions on how and where to make the payment to. Have you heard of Hushmail?"

"Sure. It's an anonymous web-based mail service." She smiled wryly. "Very difficult to trace."

"That's what Greg said."

"Greg knows?"

"Jim called him, asked him for advice. He said the lab doesn't have the facilities to trace either the burner or the IP address the email was sent from."

"Only the Feds can do that. And even then, it's not easy. We need to speak to Catherine," she then said, most categorically. "She'd help."

Grissom nodded. "As far as I know Jim called her yesterday."

Her face darkened. "Why didn't he tell me?"

"Maybe because he thought you had enough on your plate?" He sighed. "What difference would it have made anyway? You were already on your way over when we found out."

A smile of realisation crossed her face. "That's when he called me, isn't it? To check up on me?"

"I think so. Anyway, the warden had the letter couriered over yesterday. Should be at the lab, being processed."

Sara took in a long breath she let out slowly. "I'll call Jim tonight," she said. "Find out what they know."

"So will I."

She smiled.

"They called themselves Moneypenny," he went on earnestly.

"Moneypenny?" she repeated, and frowned. "Like in James Bond?"

He was about to reply when he looked up suddenly and smiled. Sara turned around and watched as Betty returned.

"I'm going to get a coffee," she signed, her eyes flicking between the two questioningly.

"I'll have a coke, thanks," Grissom replied with his hands.

"A black coffee for me, please," Sara added, and reached for the bag of coins she held out to Betty. "Shall I come with you?"

Betty shook her head. "You stay and finish your conversation. I'll be fine."

Sara brought her fingers to her chin and lowered her open hand in thanks.

"You think she's okay?" Grissom asked when Betty walked away, the concern undisguised in his voice.

"I think so," she replied, turning back toward him. "I mean, it's bound to be hard for her, you know, seeing you here, but she's…nothing if not resilient."

Grissom sighed, then nodded his head resignedly. "And health-wise?"

"You know as much I do," she replied. "If I knew more I'd tell you, I promise." She shrugged. "She's just so private, and my signing—"

"Your signing is just fine, Sara. Almost as good as mine."

She smiled. "Almost?"

His eyes were soft and loving. "I was watching you earlier, you know, how you interact with her. You're a natural."

"We've grown close, I think."

"Definitely, and I'm grateful." He smiled a little diffidently, then blinked a few times and looked over his shoulder, checking on his mother's progress.

"So this Moneypenny?" she said, reaching for his hand again, wanting to know everything before Betty's return. "Do you think a woman's behind it? As the name would suggest?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Jim and I spoke about that, but…well, I don't think we should assume it is, just because Fleming's character was female."

Sara nodded. "I agree. That said, it would make for a shorter list of suspects. I mean," she went on, when his eyes narrowed, "so far we assumed you met whoever did it while in prison, right?"

He nodded.

"First, there's this Baumstein guy," she listed, "and then Armstrong."

"It's not either of them," he said.

"I agree. I think the fact that this Moneypenny only knew me as your wife, as Sara Grissom, is meaningful. Also, they believe we have money."

"Which we don't."

"Not enough for a ransom, a substantial one anyway. Bit coins, or no Bit coins." A mischievous smile formed on her lips. "Unless you have money stashed away somewhere that I don't know about?"

Returning her smile, Grissom shook his head.

"But they _think_ we do. Could it be the wife or girlfriend of another inmate you've been in contact with maybe? Someone you mentioned me to? Someone who might believe you have money because they think you're a teacher?"

"I don't know how much you think teachers earn, but it's not that much."

"Regardless."

Grissom nodded that he understood what she was getting at. "The only person I mentioned you to while in prison is Manuel. And I can't bring myself to believe that he had anything to do with it."

Sara nodded. "I know. I thought about him too, and I don't believe he did it either. But he might have spoken to someone else about us. A girlfriend maybe? His mother?"

Grissom sighed. "And what, given them our home address?"

Sara shrugged.

"It's possible, I guess. Oh, honey," he then said, growing emotional as he lifted his hand to her face and brushed it to her cheek tenderly. "I wish I could keep you here with me. So I knew you were safe."

Leaning into his touch, she smiled. "I _am_ safe," she insisted. A playful smile formed, tugging at her lips. "I wish I could stay here with you too. Just one night. One night in your arms."

"I dream of nothing else," he replied, his words a mere whisper on his lips.

Giving her another smile and a long, wistful look, he stroked his thumb to her cheek. His eyes flicked away from her face suddenly, to a point over her shoulder and he lowered his hand from her face. Smiling brightly, he sat back from the table and motioned for his mother to join them. Betty walked up to the table a little hesitantly and set down on the table a tray laden with their drinks and a selection of snacks.

"Thank you," Grissom signed, lowering a flat hand from his chin.

The shine in his eyes, the emotion displayed on his features, told Sara his thanks encompassed more than just the food and drinks. He was thanking her for being so generous-minded and understanding; for making this reunion so easy for him, for them, but also for giving him and Sara time alone to reconnect.


	35. Chapter 35

A/N: The two-part quote at the end of the chapter is taken from _A Testament of Hope: The Essential Writings and Speeches_ _by Martin Luther King Jr._

* * *

Grissom felt much better than he had for days when he got back to his unit after the visit. Sara looked well and happy despite her ordeal – he would have known if she had put up a front for him – but seeing his mother after all this time, witnessing for himself that she was well and being able to chat so freely with her had meant so much. He was so grateful to Sara for making the visit possible, for looking after his mother so well in his absence.

He had been nervous going into the room; seeing both his mother and Sara at the same time had been somewhat daunting, but he felt the visit couldn't have gone any better, any smoother. The strong and complicit bond the two women seemed to have formed warmed his heart, but it was their unconditional love and forgiveness, their unending support, which were so vital to his wellbeing, that moved him the most. He was glad they had been able to stay the full six hours, wished they could too the following day when they returned. Forty points a month simply weren't enough.

Talking to Sara about the ransom demand had given him a new perspective too. His world was so male dominated at present that he hadn't seriously considered the fact that a woman could be behind the kidnapping. Whoever it was, though, had an advance understanding of computers and knew how to keep their digital fingerprint anonymous, unless of course they had an accomplice. Could Moneypenny be more than one person?

In his dorm, he changed into his normal clothes, neatly folding his white and khaki uniform and stowing it into his locker for the following day, and headed to the phones. As he waited for his turn, he wondered at Manuel's involvement again. It was possible that the young Hispanic had mentioned him and Sara to his mother, but he couldn't believe that Manuel would consciously try to harm him or Sara, or extort money from them. He had been a loyal and genuine friend to Grissom, protective of him. Hell, he'd only need to ask and Grissom would loan him money.

A booth finally freed up and Grissom quickly took his place, lifting the receiver and calling Brass's home number. As the call rang, he prayed that Brass was in. It was still early in the day that the captain _should_ be home, but with everything that was happening it wouldn't surprise Grissom if Brass had set up camp in his office. He was desperate to know about possible developments on the case before he saw Sara again the following day. He hoped too that bouncing ideas off Brass might trigger a memory that would put the investigation on the right track.

"Hello?" said his friend's gruff voice.

"Jim, it's Gil," Grissom said with a sigh of relief. "I'm not getting you out of bed, am I?"

"No," Brass replied in an easy chuckle. "That honour was reserved for your wife. I was just in the den reviewing files."

Grissom stifled a smile. "She did mention she'd call. She give you a hard time for keeping her in the dark?"

Brass laughed. "She tried, but her cell kept cutting out."

"Her cell, huh?"

"What can you do?" Brass went on, matter-of-factly. "Service is bad in the desert, especially within prison walls. And that's a fact. She said she'd call back when she gets to the hotel. I got all my soldiers lined up already, ready for battle."

His smile widening, Grissom checked the time on his watch. That left them about an hour, much longer than Grissom intended to stay on the phone if he wanted to have any minutes left for the rest of the month. "I guess you can easily turn that around with some good news. You got any?"

There was a pause. "I have news, but they're not that good."

Grissom's heart sank. "Go on."

"Well, we sent Moneypenny the email last night but haven't heard back yet."

Grissom's eyes narrowed. "It's been close to 24 hours," he said, puzzled. "You would have thought they'd have replied by now. The quicker they do it, the quicker they get their money. You think they suspect something?"

"I don't know. Unless Dooley and his two associates haven't been straight with us, I don't see how."

Grissom scratched at the day's stubble on his cheek. "And the ransom demand?"

"I haven't got much to say on that either," Brass said in a sigh. "The few prints we recovered from the letter itself were the prison mailroom clerk's. The perp must have worn gloves."

"And on the envelope?"

"Well, that's trickier. Mandy found prints everywhere, a lot of them smudges or overlapping. Some are the mailroom clerk's, a few others from other correctional officers – all in the system. But others are as yet unidentified."

"Well, that's not all that surprising considering how many times that letter would have been handled between Jackson, Mississippi and here—" Grissom stopped in his tracks, "But that was expected. You said you had _news_."

Brass paused. "I spoke to Catherine."

Closing his eyes, Grissom nodded his head. He knew everything those four words encompassed; Sara's abduction and subsequent rescue, the ransom demand and need for help on the case, but also the fact that he was behind bars and had been for the last two years. "And what did she say?"

Brass sighed. "She was...stunned and then angry. And then stunned again. You know."

Grissom's eyes lowered, and he nodded his head shamefully. "No. I meant…" he went on, pushing the dark thoughts away, "Can she help?"

"Yes, she can," Brass said after a beat. "The fact that the ransom demand was posted in Jackson makes Sara's kidnapping a federal case anyway. She's hopeful they can track the burner from the phone number recorded on Dooley's cell. It's going to take a little time, but as you know burners are never as safe as criminals think they are."

Grissom gave a musing nod. "And Hushmail?"

"Well, getting an IP address they can track isn't straightforward."

"It's not straightforward but it's doable, right?"

"Yeah, it is. Apparently, Hushmail isn't as secure or anonymous as they like to advertise. They claim to keep your emails locked behind state-of-the-art encryption methods, so not even _they_ can read your messages, only someone with the password can, but that's not true."

"They keep records of everything?"

"They do. All the feds would need is to convince a Canadian court to serve a court order on the company."

Grissom's eyes narrowed. "Is the fact that the company is Canadian going to be a problem?

"No. Well, Catherine doesn't think so anyway – provided the FBI can put together a strong enough case. But if they did get the court order, then Hushmail would hand over Moneypenny's account details and copies of all emails. I don't know if you'll recall but there was this case last year, steroids dealers that used Hushmail to do their selling."

No, Grissom didn't recall, but he kept silent.

"Following evidence handed over by Hushmail," Brass went on, "the feds were able to prosecute more than a hundred dealers and buyers." He paused. "Anyways, it's not Catherine's department, but she's on the case. And you know what she's like. She won't let it go until we get this Moneypenny one way or another."

Grissom gave a slow nod. "And you're sure the email you sent looked like it came from me?"

"Oh, yes. I saw it myself. It looked genuine."

As frustrating as it was, there wasn't much more they could do right then. They needed Moneypenny to make contact, and the quicker they did it the quicker the FBI could begin to track them down. "Okay," he said, and then as an afterthought, his words heartfelt, "Thank you."

"It's Catherine you got to thank, not me."

Grissom nodded that he understood. Yet another close friend and family he'd let down, he thought. He felt bad that Catherine had found out the way she had, from a third party. He had hoped to keep his whereabouts a secret until the end of his sentence, until he could tell people himself, but it was looking more and more unlikely. Maybe he could write to her and explain, or maybe he could get Sara to call her. Sara would know how to explain better than he could. He smiled wryly; she would probably do that without his asking as soon as she got the update from Brass.

"Gil? You still there?"

"Yeah, sorry," he said, refocusing suddenly. Two men were talking loudly behind him, almost shouting, and he turned his ear away from them. "Listen, Jim, I got to go soon, but there's something else I want to discuss with you first." He winced. "I may have thought of someone else."

"Someone else?"

"As the possible blackmailer."

"And you're only telling me now?"

Grissom paused, hesitating. "Well…I—I don't think he did it."

"Go on," Brass said impatiently.

"It's my old cellie, when I was at Beaumont. His name is Manuel Ortega. I mean, like I said, I don't believe he's behind it – well I _know_ he's not behind it – but—"

"If you _know_ he's not behind it then why do you feel the need to mention him to me, huh?"

Grissom let out a long breath. "Because apart from Armstrong he's the only other inmate who knows about Sara. He also knows where we live."

"Oh, come on, Gil," Brass exclaimed, clearly exasperated. "You know better than that. Why would you share that information with him? Why would you take that risk?"

Trying to keep his cool, Grissom took a breath. "Sara wrote to him once to thank him…for something, and when you write to an inmate you have to include a return address. So she did. He and Sara have been writing each other on a regular basis since then. That's the only way we can keep in touch. I know how it must sound to you, but…I trust him, Jim."

"You _trust_ him?" Brass's disbelief was evident in his tone. "How can you trust him, Gil? You don't know him, not outside of a prison cell."

"I know him. He's a good person. I—"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," Brass cut in. "You trust him. Like you trust _me_?" And then when Grissom kept silent, "He's a felon, Gil."

"So am I!" Grissom countered, his temper getting the better of him, and checked his surroundings. "Listen," he went on, his voice urgent but not so loud that the other men around him could hear, "I know what you're saying. I understand where you're coming from. But Sara and I talked about it and we're both sure he didn't do it. How could he have sent the ransom note? All outgoing mail is checked before it gets sent. Same about the email. But it's possible he talked to someone about us. His mother, or a girlfriend maybe, a friend who could have spoken to someone else—"

"I get the picture." Brass took in a breath he let out slowly. "And where's he at now, this…Manuel? Still in Beaumont?"

"No. He got transferred out to South Fork Forest Camp. It's near Tillamook in Oregon."

"Well, I hope your instinct's right," Brass then said, still clearly riled. "But I'll check for myself, if you don't mind."

"Please be discreet."

"Be discreet?" Brass exclaimed with disbelief. "You worried I'm going to hurt his feelings?"

"Yes, I am," Grissom retorted, his voice once again rising. "He's a friend, Jim, just like you are." Taking a long breath, he cast an eye around self-consciously.

"Okay. Okay," Brass said conciliatorily, calmer now. "I promise to be discreet."

"Thank you."

"But if it turns out he's involved—"

"Then you can throw the book at him."

"Alright." Brass paused. "So, huh, what do you want me to tell Sara when she calls?"

"Everything you told me. She'll probably be on the phone to Catherine straight after she's called you, demanding an update."

"She'll have some explaining to do too." Brass sighed, and Grissom averted his gaze uncomfortably. "Anyways, the visit go well today, did it?"

Surprised by the change of tack, Grissom smiled wistfully. "Yeah, it did. It's just…not long enough."

"There's always tomorrow."

"I know."

"And your mother was well?"

"She was."

"Oh, that's good to hear. You heard from the parole board yet?"

Grissom laughed. "I only put in the paperwork last week. You know what it's like. I don't expect to hear anything for a few weeks, months even."

"Weeks, even months, isn't that long. You… started thinking about the future yet? You know, about what you're going to do afterwards?"

Grissom registered a look of surprise at the turn the conversation was taking. "Certain aspects I have," he replied, surprising himself by his honesty, thinking of all the things he wanted to catch up on with Sara, with his mother. The ringing of Brass's cell at the end of the line put paid to his train for thought.

"Listen, Gil," Brass said. "I'd better go. Sara's calling."

Grissom's smile returned. He checked his watch; he and Brass had been on the phone twenty-five minutes. There was no way Sara was back at the hotel already. Thinking of her and his mother stopped in some roadside dinner, grabbing some late lunch, made his smile broaden. "Good luck."

Brass laughed. "I'll email as soon as I have anything."

"Thanks, Jim."

"Look after yourself, alright?"

"You too." Grissom was lowering the handset from his ear when Brass called his name. "Yes?" he said, coming back on the line.

"How about when you're out we rent a boat and go fishing together? Just you and me."

Grissom's brow rose with surprise. "I'd like that. I'd like that very much."

By the time he and Brass finished, it was close to 4.30. He hesitated briefly before joining the already long dinner line and when his turn came loaded his tray. Friday evening's meal was the last hot meal until the following Monday and most inmates didn't like to miss it. The chow hall filled up quickly, but he found a space at a table with a few of his dorm buddies. His appetite seemed to have returned and he ate everything, even joining in the conversation when someone asked for his opinion on the film they were showing later that evening.

Afterwards, he went to the computer room to check his emails. There was one from Brass – it didn't say anything he didn't already know – and one from Sara, which had come in after he'd checked that very morning and where she told him she couldn't wait to see him. The thought brought a wistful smile to his lips. He replied to it, saying he had loved their time together and asking that she called Catherine – if she hadn't done so already – to apologise on his behalf and begin to explain. He was heading back to his dorm when he bumped into Mitch.

"Hey Buddy," Mitch said. "It's mail call. You coming?"

Grissom hesitated. He didn't think he'd have any mail, but he went anyway. Mail call on a Friday, the last one of the week, was always packed. Neither man got any mail, but Grissom was handed yet another message slip, this time informing him that he'd received some legal mail, which was waiting to be collected at the unit team area. It was too soon for a response from the parole board, but he figured that maybe he hadn't filled in the application forms correctly and that they had been sent back to him.

"I'll catch you later," he told Mitch distractedly, patting him on the shoulder as he left.

His brow creased in a frown, he took a left out of the dayroom, headed to the correctional officers' office. When he passed the message slip and his inmate ID through the slot in the safety glass, the duty officer moved to a filing cabinet and retrieved his letter. Grissom took out his glasses from his pocket and put them on. The officer showed him the sealed envelope. His attorney's full name, title and address were clearly visible on the front top left corner, as well as _Legal Mail: Open Only in the Presence of the Inmate_.

A deep sense of foreboding filled him as he wondered at the content. His attorney wasn't involved in his parole application, so he knew the letter wasn't about that. He watched as the officer neatly cut the envelope open and took out the single sheet of paper inside. The officer glanced at the letter without reading it before checking inside the envelope for contraband. Satisfied, he slipped the letter back inside the envelope and put it and Grissom's ID in the slot. Grissom nodded his thanks and letter in hand hesitated before deciding to go somewhere quieter to read it.

Dorms were always relatively quiet on film and sports nights, and that evening was no exception. He walked up to his cubicle, pleased to see that his bunkmate wasn't there. With shaky fingers, he pulled the letter out of the envelope, his eyes immediately filling as he read its handwritten content. Despite the fact that he had known it was coming and should have been more prepared, the news still came as a heavy blow. Winded, he sank down on the edge of his cot and read the letter again. His feelings of guilt and shame and self-loathing returned, causing his tears to fall.

Following a short stay in hospital, Mr Martinez had died of complications from pneumonia, his attorney wrote, and that over two weeks previously. Two weeks, Grissom thought, and he hadn't suspected a thing. How long had the letter been waiting to be opened, he wondered then? The attorney also informed Grissom of the funeral arrangements – as if he were able to go – and that as soon as he'd been made aware of the sad news he had followed Grissom's explicit instructions and sent a cheque to Mr and Mrs Martinez's daughter to cover for the funeral expenses.

The gesture gave Grissom no consolation whatsoever. Money was hardly a substitute for having one's parents around, but what else could he do? He wasn't trying to atone his conscience, as people might think, he was simply trying to make a difficult time easier for Mr Martinez's daughter. He knew Mr Martinez had been ill but, even if two years had passed since the accident, he still felt responsible.

He remained seated, his head bowed low, for a long time before looking up suddenly, his wet eyes wide and disbelieving, when it finally struck him that the funeral had taken place that very day. While he was having a nice time chatting and laughing and playing cards with Sara and his mother, Mr Martinez was being laid to rest. Fresh tears formed and he removed his glasses to wipe at them, took a couple of deep breaths to still his racing heart and the negative thoughts in his heads, but to no avail.

"Grissom," his bunkmate called softly, as he walked past Grissom on his way to his locker, "You okay?"

Grissom gave his head a shake, refocusing, and quickly wiping at his face self-consciously glanced at his bunkmate. His back turned, the latter was doing the combination on his padlock. "Sure," Grissom said, and cleared his throat. "I just got some bad news, that's all."

His bunkmate looked over his shoulder and nodded his head. That was as far as their interaction went.

Grissom spent the evening on his cot, staring unseeingly at the bunk above, feeling wretched. His tears had dried, but his mind was still flooded with memories of the crash, of all the things he could have done – _should_ have done – differently to prevent it. He wished Sara was home so he could call and talk to her. He thought about emailing her again to tell her the sad news, but what good would that do, except to spoil her evening with his mother? Besides, he doubted any words she had to offer him could make him feel better.

Some twenty minutes before lights out, the dorm started to fill again and he turned onto his side, facing the wall with his arm folded under his head, feigning sleep. He got up for count and stood by his bed looking at his feet, only to resume his former position afterwards. The lights dimmed at 10, but people kept moving about and talking. Some were even playing cards. He was just too overwrought to sleep. If he thought he wouldn't break both Sara's and his mother's hearts and cause them undue worry, he would cancel the next day's visit.

When 6am came, he'd barely slept, tossing and turning all night on the small cot. Exhausted, he went through the motions, getting up with the buzzer before making his bed and tidying his cubicle. He skipped breakfast, but had a shower and brushed his teeth before he put on yesterday's visitation uniform. As soon as the computer room opened, he did what he should have done the evening before. With tears in his eyes, he emailed Sara about Mr Martinez's death and asked if it was at all possible that she told his mother the news.

He knew he was cutting it fine, that they'd probably be on the road already and wouldn't get the email in time. He knew too that it was a cowardly thing to do, but he figured it might be easier for him – and them – to deal with the visit if they knew in advance. That way, they would have had a little time to get used to the idea and prepare themselves before they saw him. He simply wasn't strong enough to speak the words, or form the signs, without breaking down. He needed their support now more than ever if he didn't want to plunge in the same depths of despair he'd found himself in after the accident.

At 8.30, he presented himself to the COs' office. After he and the few inmates from his unit due for visits that day had gone through the usual ID and body checks, they were taken through to the visitation area where they joined inmates from other units and endured more checks. While the waiting room gradually filled, Grissom stood in one corner, looking at the ground. When, after yet another count, they were finally allowed in, he gave one glance around the visitation room and located them. The glum look on their faces said it all. Welling up, he managed a small watery smile and, head hung low, made himself walk over to them.

"Oh, Gil," Sara said, immediately taking him in her arms as she stood up and holding him tight. "I am so sorry."

Grissom gave a nod in her neck and his tears finally falling returned the hug with all his might.

"It isn't your fault," she said into his ear, and stifling a sob he squeezed her that much more fiercely. She gave his back comforting pats and taking in a deep breath, he made himself pull back. Giving him a tender smile, she sought his eyes. "This isn't your fault," she repeated in an earnest whisper, her hands lifting to cup his face as she held his gaze intently. "It isn't your fault."

Grissom gave a weak nod and wiping at his eyes turned toward his mother. Just like Sara's, her eyes were full ofpain and compassion, but also love and forgiveness. As she used to do when he was a child, Betty motioned for him to come to her before she opened her arms and he fell in her embrace. Sara reached over and once again stroked his back.

"It's going to be fine," his mother signed, pulling back from him. " _You_ are going to be fine. You are not alone." She pointed toward Sara and then to herself. "We're with you. Always."

Grissom gave another weak nod, then he wiped at his face and they all sat down around the table. Betty reached out her hand to him in support, and mustering a small, grateful smile he gripped it. Turning to Sara, she reached her other hand over to her and Sara took it without hesitation. Understanding what his mother was doing, he lifted his free hand and turned it palm up toward Sara who closed the circle. His mother closed her eyes, and surprisingly Sara followed suit. He hadn't prayed in many decades, not properly anyway, either with words or signs, or silently for that matter, but if it helped his mother then he would let her.

When his mother broke the circle after a minute or so, he was feeling calmer. "'Darkness cannot drive out darkness'," she signed, her smile as enigmatic as the twinkle in her eyes. "'Only light can do that'."

Grissom looked over at Sara who was staring at Betty with puzzlement, and frowning tried to make sense of his mother's cryptic signs. When he finally did, a slow smile formed, growing on his face until it lit his eyes. His head shaking in disbelief, he slowly signed back, "'Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that'."

His mother's smile widened. "That's right, son. And you got a lot of love and light in your life."


	36. Chapter 36

"I'm sorry," Grissom signed, his gaze flicking between his mother and Sara. He didn't say the words, he just rotated a sad fist on his chest a few times, and Sara wondered whether it was easier for him to form the sign rather than speak the word.

"You've got nothing to be sorry for," Betty signed back immediately, vehemently, taking the words right out of Sara's mouth.

Grissom lifted a small shoulder. "Your trip, the visit…it all started so well." He spoke with his hands only, but the glances he threw in Sara's direction meant that he included her in the exchange. She was trying to stay strong and keep her tears at bay, but seeing first hand how much pain he was in made it hard. He was right; at that moment in time it was easier not to use words.

"And it will finish just as well," Betty countered, holding her son's gaze meaningfully.

The morning couldn't have started any better for the two women; still buoyed up by the previous day's visit they were looking forward to spending another happy day with him. It was only an hour or so previously, when parked in the prison visitors' car lot Sara had given her cell one last check before she would put it away for the day, that the mood had changed. Reading his news had crushed her and she'd sat shocked and staring unseeingly at her cell for long seconds. She knew just how devastated he would be at Mr Martinez's death, how awfully guilty and responsible he'd feel too.

Betty had gently covered her hand, and looking up Sara had wiped the tears from her eyes. Betty was looking at her with a mixture of fear, concern and puzzlement, and Sara opened her mouth to explain, then belatedly raised her hands, but could form no words or signs to share Grissom's news. In the end, she held out her cell and let Betty read the message for herself. Despite the look of pain in her eyes, Betty gave Sara a small smile and patted her hand comfortingly before signing that she was surprised, but very glad, that he hadn't cancelled the visit altogether, that it showed he was coping.

Betty's comment gave Sara pause and it took her a while to realise that the older woman was right. Yes, he'd received tragic news but unlike in the past he wasn't cutting himself off them, his loved ones. He was opening up and letting them in, he was allowing them to share the burden of his pain and give him their love and support. Determined to stay strong for him, Sara had checked her reflection in the mirror, wiping around her eyes and fluffing her hair. Then she'd turned toward Betty and the two women shared a smile. They would be there for him every step of the way.

Giving her head a shake, Sara turned her attention back to the moment and her surroundings. Grissom was looking at his mother expectantly. Betty's hands were poised into signs when she paused suddenly. Her hands curling back into loose fists in front of her on the table, she turned toward Sara and smiled.

Understanding the older woman's silent question, Sara gave her a thumbs-up. "I'm okay," it said. "Just keep talking to him; I'll try to follow as much as I can."

Betty nodded, then turned back to Grissom whose gaze had glazed over as he stared at a point in front of him. She wished she knew what to say to lift his gloom and make him feel better. Slowly, he refocused on them and Sara gave him a smile he returned uncertainly.

Betty raised her hands and he looked over at her. "Life sent you a challenge," she signed, a determined look on her face, and Sara frowned.

He lifted his right hand, palm toward him, and showed one lonely index finger. "Just one?"

Sara stifled her smile. Even with signs, he could be petulant.

Betty waved his interruption off. "They're all tests of your courage and willingness to change. To adapt."

Averting his eyes to the table, Grissom nodded his head sombrely. He looked awkward, slightly fed-up, and Sara knew he didn't want to have that conversation with his mother. Briefly, she wondered whether she should interrupt and mention that she'd spoken to Catherine, but opted not to. However uncomfortable, it could be good for him to hear a few truths, especially if they came from his mother rather than her. After glancing at Sara uncertainly, Betty touched her son's hand and he looked back up.

"What happened is very sad," she went on, her expression earnest, yet eager, "but you're coping with it. You're doing well, Gil."

Grissom gave his mother a small smile and nod. She reached for his hand and he gripped it.

"But you need to do more than just cope."

Grissom's face fell, and rolling his eyes he looked at Sara for help. She just gave him a helpless shrug, and he slowly refocused on his mother.

"Your past is what it is," Betty went on, quietly but relentlessly. She'd obviously thought about what she needed to tell him and was determined to do it when she had the chance whether he wanted to hear it or not. "It changes you. It changes all of us. It makes us into different people, _better_ people. But _you_ can't change _it_. No one can change the past. Not even…"

Looking more and more annoyed, Grissom pulled a face while Sara's frown intensified. She could tell Betty kept her signing deliberately slow so she could follow and mostly she did, or she thought she did anyway, but the last sign had her completely stumped. What had Betty signed that had riled Grissom? She raised her hand to draw attention, then schooled her features into a look of intense puzzlement and repeated the sign.

Grissom's look of annoyance morphed into one of amusement. Smiling, he flicked his eyes to his mother, lifted a brow and once again repeated the sign. "It's the sign for God," he then said, refocusing on Sara. "She's saying I'm not God."

Betty registered a look of shock, then batted her son's words away. She was smiling, and had clearly lip-read what he'd told Sara. "That's not what I said," she signed to Sara, her expression sobering as she narrowed her eyes at her son. Sara and Grissom shared a look and suppressed their smiles.

"What I said was," Betty went on with her hands, addressing Sara, "that Gil's future is in his hands." She turned toward her son. "Your willingness to learn from the past gives you a choice."

Grissom's eyes narrowed in a question. "A choice?"

Sara's gaze flicked back to her mother-in-law. Her expression was solemn, her eyes intent as they moved back and forth and up and down as she tried to keep up with the conversation and the mood on her companions' faces.

Betty gave a firm nod. "You can either keep looking back to the past, and feel the way you do, sad and depressed—"

"Depressed?"

Looking at Grissom straight in the eyes, Betty made her hand into a fist and bent it up and down at the wrist. "Yes," she insisted, "Depressed."

Grissom's gaze averted before he gave a nod. "You said I had a choice," he queried, looking back up.

Betty glanced at Sara, and Sara nodded that she was doing the right thing and should carry on. "If you don't look back then you're looking forward," she then signed, turning back to her son and giving him a warm smile. "Your life didn't stop with what happened, so you need to start living it again and looking forward to a future out of here." She looked over at Sara and smiled again, "with us."

Grissom didn't respond. He just blew a short breath, while it took Sara a moment longer to finish putting all the signs into coherent meaning.

"Your mom talks a lot of sense," she finally told him aloud, forgetting to sign the words.

Grissom pulled a face at her, but she could tell he wasn't annoyed at his mother for calling him out on his feelings, on his behaviour, but more at himself, maybe for behaving that way and indulging on his negative feelings instead of moving forward. "You're not helping," he told Sara, the hint of a smile twisting his lips.

"Oh, I think we are," she replied, grinning.

Grissom's smile widened, and he shook his head. Still smiling, Sara turned toward Betty who was watching their lips and interaction with interest and gave her a thumbs-up.

"Finished with the lecture?" Grissom then signed to his mother while also speaking the words.

Betty pulled a face. "Only if you promise to think about what I just told you."

His expression softening, Grissom nodded his head. "So what did you get up to last night?" he then asked both with words and his hands, eyes flicking between the two women eagerly, clearly needing to change topics.

A giddy smile broke across Betty's face. "Well," she replied, glancing at Sara excitedly, "we took a drive out to see the sunset."

"The sunset?" Grissom queried with a look at Sara, frowning in puzzlement.

"We drove out to Kern Canyon," Sara explained. "The locals claim it's California's best kept secret, so we thought we'd check it out."

"The way the brown hills reflect off the water is very beautiful," Betty added with her hands.

Grissom's smile faded into melancholy. "Sounds nice."

"You were there too," Sara whispered, leaning over to him, "With us."

He flicked his eyes over to her, and his smile brightening picked up her hand off the table and brought it to his lips for a gentle kiss. The gesture was so tender, so unexpected, that Sara felt herself blush.

Betty cleared her throat noisily, deliberately, and they laughed. She scraped her chair back. "I'm going to go to the bathroom," she signed, pushing to her feet, "Give you two a moment alone to catch up."

Sara reached for Betty's hand, keeping her in place. "You don't have to do that," she signed.

Betty gave her daughter-in-law a warm smile. "I want to." Her smile widened as she flicked her eyes over to Grissom. "Besides, I do need to go."

Both Grissom and Sara lowered a flat hand from their chins in thanks.

"Same as yesterday?" Betty signed before pointing to the clear bag of coins.

Grissom and Sara nodded their heads. Sara reached for the purse she handed over to Betty and watched her go.

"She's a formidable woman," Sara said, turning back to her husband whose gaze was fixed on his mother's retreating form.

He scoffed but didn't otherwise comment.

She reached for his hand on the table, turned it over gently and stroked his fingers. "You're going to be okay," she said, looking up to his face, unsure if she was trying to convince him or herself with the statement.

Closing his hand over hers, he gave her a soft smile.

They shared a long look before Sara said, "Your mother's right, you know."

Grissom gave a quiet nod. "I know. And I _am_ looking forward to the future." He squeezed her hand tenderly. "I can't wait to be back home with you and Mom, and catch up on all the things I've missed."

"But?" she prompted. His tone of voice told her one was coming.

Dropping her hand, he lifted a shoulder uncertainly. "I don't think I'll ever be able to leave this…" he waved his hand about his face, "sadness behind."

Sara frowned. "How do you mean?"

He shrugged again. "I think this sadness has become a part of me, I don't think it will ever go away."

By sadness, she understood he meant depression. It was the first time he acknowledged what she'd been fearing for months. Feeling tears rise, she averted her eyes to the table.

"And while it doesn't define me," he went on quietly, "I'm going to need to learn to live with it. It's my reminder of the harm I've done, the cross I have to bear."

Sara looked up with surprise. "That's…a very religious thing to say."

He smiled wryly. "Don't worry. I'm not about to convert."

"It wouldn't be an issue if you did," she said, determinedly, emotionally. "It could help, you know?"

"I don't think so."

"Maybe it would bring you peace, some kind of comfort—"

He scoffed. "Now you're sounding just like my mother." He paused, shrugged. "I've got you, and Mom." He picked up her hand again and squeezed it. "I'm doing okay, alright? It's just…the news hit me hard, that's all. It brought everything home again."

"Well, that's to be expected. But it'll get easier."

He gave an unconvinced nod. "Did I tell you the funeral was yesterday?"

Sara shook her head softly.

"I feel for the daughter, you know?" He blew out a slow, trembling breath. "Losing both her parents like that."

Sara gave a nod, but had no words of comfort to offer him. She just offered him a smile and hoped that talking about it with her would help ease his pain and guilt. "Mr Martinez was a good man," she said, "but he'd been ill for a long time."

Grissom sighed, nodded his head. "I know. I'm glad I wrote to him," he went on, tears welling in his eyes once again, "When I had the chance."

Sara gave his hand a squeeze he returned warmly. "It was good you did. That way you made peace. With him, if not with yourself."

Discreetly wiping at his eyes with his free hand, Grissom gave a forlorn nod.

"He didn't resent you, you know," she said softly, and her brow creasing stopped dead in her tracks. "When did you say Mr Martinez died?"

"A couple of weeks ago." He frowned. "Why?"

"Think about it, Gil," she went on, her mind whirring. "Time wise, it all fits."

Grissom's puzzlement intensified. "Slow down, Sara. I'm not following. What all fits?"

Sara cast a quick look around, kept her voice low despite the urgency in her tone. "Mr Martinez's death. My kidnapping. The ransom demand. I think the daughter – Marisa – is behind it. I think she's Moneypenny."

Grissom wiped at his face. "Sara—"

"Being at her father's funeral yesterday would explain why we haven't gotten a reply to the email we sent. She wouldn't have had time."

Grissom was still looking conflicted, disbelieving.

"Gil," she went on, "I get that you don't want to believe it, but think about it logically, objectively." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Just…put your investigator hat on for one second and think it through. Mr Martinez died two weeks ago. Heartbroken, Marisa decides she wants revenge and cooks up my kidnapping. She knows who we are, where we live. She thinks we have money."

"Why would she think that?"

"Because you paid for her mother's funeral."

He looked surprised that she knew, but her words clearly gave him pause.

"Maybe now she wants more money to pay for her father's funeral," she insisted quietly.

He looked up sharply.

"What is it?"

He sighed. "I just sent her a cheque – well, my attorney did – to pay for the funeral. It was all set up from…from before." He wiped at his eyes and gave his head a shake. "Oh, I don't know, Sara. If it's money she's after, why ask to be paid in Bit coins?"

"I don't know. But why not? It's all done through a computer. Maybe she thinks it's untraceable. What does it matter?"

He was watching her beseechingly. "How do you explain the fact that the ransom demand was posted from Jackson, Mississippi? That's what? Five? Six hours away from Port Arthur?"

Sara opened her mouth to reply, only to find that she had no rejoinder. Instead, she blew out a breath. "I'm not saying I have all the answers, and I hope against all hope that I'm wrong, but it's just…too much of a coincidence otherwise. We've been racking our brains trying to think of someone with a strong enough motive to want to do us harm. And the kidnapping seemed so spontaneous, so poorly planned. It all fits, Gil. I know it does."

Grissom thought everything over for a moment before he finally gave a nod.

"We got to let Jim and Catherine know." Sara made to stand, but remembering where she was thought better of it.

"Now? No," he said, fearfully. "If you leave, they won't let you back into the room."

She hesitated. "We got to act fast, Gil, before it's too late. Don't you want her caught?"

"Of course, but…where's the rush? As far as they're concerned, everything is going ahead as planned. They still think they have the upper hand." He paused. "No, before we act, we need evidence. We need to be one-hundred-per-cent sure we're right. We're going to need Catherine and the feds to trace the burner and the email IP address back to them. Without that, what proof do we have? If Marisa _is_ Moneypenny then she's not going anywhere."

When Sara finally twisted her lips, conceding that he had a point, he gave her a smile.

"Besides," he looked at his wrist, but wasn't wearing his watch, "I intend to keep you here for the full three and bit hours we got left. A month is a long wait."

A slow smile formed on her face. "I can't argue with that."

They lapsed into silence, Sara musing how nice it was to see Grissom enthused and thinking like a CSI again while he worriedly scanned his eyes over the visitation room. Breaking into a smile, he raised his hand in a small wave and Sara followed his eye line, finding Betty waiting at the coffee machine.

"Did you speak to Catherine?" he then asked, and Sara turned back toward him.

She gave a nod. "I called her last night. She didn't have much to update me on. They're confident they can trace the burner."

Grissom nodded. "That's what Jim said. He also said she didn't take to knowing I was behind bars very well."

Sara shrugged, played down Catherine's reaction. "You know Catherine. She went through three of the five stages of grief in a matter of seconds."

Grissom chuckled quietly. "Let me guess. Denial, anger and then acceptance?"

"Mainly anger, though."

His expression sobered. "Did you…manage to explain?"

"I did, but…well, she said she…wants to come and see you."

Grissom's eyes widened with fear. "What, here?"

Sara nodded. "I told her it wasn't a good idea," she added before he could object, "That you weren't ready to see anyone yet."

His gaze averting, he nodded his head. "Thank you."

"But maybe you should, you know?" she went on tentatively. "Maybe it's time you faced those fears and started building your bridges again. And why not start with Catherine?"

He opened his mouth, but all that came out was a long sigh.

"You'll be out in less than six months, Gil."

He refocused on her sharply. "Provided they approve the early release."

"They will. Why wouldn't they? You have been the model prisoner."

Grissom pulled a face. "Tell Catherine I don't have any points left."

Sara laughed. "Oh, I'm sure she'd find a way around that."

Grissom made a musing that's-what-I'm-afraid-of sound before refocusing his eyes to their left and smiling. Betty returned and, when they pulled back from the table, she set down the tray laden with drinks and snacks she was carrying. The visitation room provided a few board games and playing cards, and smiling Grissom motioned to the battered deck she'd visibly borrowed.

"You checked we have all four aces this time?" he signed, his smile as mischievous as the look in his eyes.

Head shaking in mock exasperation, Betty resumed her seat and began sharing the food and drinks around. Sara tried to put her worries and thoughts about the case aside, and they spent the rest of their time together quietly sharing anecdotes, laughing and playing cards. To the outside observer, they looked like they were having a good time – and they were. Yet there were moments when she caught Grissom deep in thought with that sad faraway look in his eyes, and she knew he was thinking about Mr Martinez and his daughter.

All too soon, an officer walked up to their table, announcing that it was time for them to say goodbye, and she was filled with overwhelming sadness. Leaving him when he was so down was heart-breaking, but she willed herself to stay strong. They stood up and, under the watchful eye of the officer, she and Betty shared long and heartfelt hugs with him.

"We'll see you in a few weeks," Sara said, when the officer indicated that Grissom should leave first.

Grissom gave a despondent nod before he flicked his eyes to his mother and giving her a small smile raised his hand in goodbye. Betty's returning smile quivered but just like her son she held on to her tears. He didn't look back, and it was just as well. It was tough to see him be led away from them like that. When Sara turned to Betty, the latter was wiping at her eyes under the rim of her glasses. She took a step toward her, then draped her arm around her shoulders comfortingly and they made their way out of the visitation room.

The mood in the car afterwards was subdued. Betty kept her face turned away as she stared at the passing landscape while Sara watched the road. Her mind was on the call she would make to Catherine, but the urgency had left her. If Marisa Baker was indeed found to be Moneypenny, would that add to Grissom's feelings of guilt and wretchedness? His depression? Not only had he killed Mr and Mrs Martinez – in his eyes anyway – but he'd also be instrumental to putting their daughter behind bars. She wasn't sure how he would cope with that.

Just like she had the previous day, Sara pulled up at Jo's Diner on the outskirts of Taft. Even though neither woman was hungry, they ordered a light lunch and a couple of iced teas. While they waited, Betty went to use the facilities and Sara called Catherine. The chances that anyone was at work on a Saturday were slim, but she hoped Catherine could alert the right people anyway. It would get the ball rolling and maybe they'd even start to carry out a few checks. Catherine picked up on the second ring.

"Sara, I was about to call you. Well, I was going to leave a message. You finished with Gil already?"

"It was busy, so we had to leave." She frowned. "You heard back from Moneypenny?"

"We did. We got a reply this morning. It's short and to the point as you'd expect. They want ten Bit coins for your release."

"Ten?" Sara exclaimed, surprised. "That doesn't sound like much."

Catherine chuckled. "It depends. Is fifty G much?"

Sara did a double take. "How much?"

"Fifty thousand dollars, Sara. Give or take."

Sara opened her mouth, then shut it again. The waitress returned with the two iced teas, and refocusing she thanked her with a smile. "Where does she think we'd get that kind of money from?"

There was a pause. " _She_?"

Sara sighed. Searching the diner for signs of Betty, she explained about Mr Martinez's death and his daughter's strong animosity toward Grissom when she'd met her, that she was sure, even if Grissom was more cautious, that Marisa had to be behind the kidnapping and blackmail. "You got any leads on the phone number?" she then asked.

"Not yet. But I'll take a good look at the daughter. See what comes up."

"Thanks, Catherine. I'll call Jim in a little while to let him know."

"That'd help." Catherine paused before her tone changed from professional to caring as she asked, "How was Gil?"

Sara's sadness returned. "Not great. He put on a brave face in front of his mother but Mr Martinez's death hit him hard."

Catherine gave a long sigh. "Oh, Sara, I really wish I'd known the truth sooner."

Sara scoffed. "So do I, Cath. So do I."

There was a pause. "Did you...mention to him about me visiting?" Catherine's tone was soft, hopeful.

"I don't think he's up to it. Not yet. But maybe you could write to him?"

"I will."

Sara checked the entrance to the bathroom for signs of Betty. "Anyway, I'd better go."

After thanking Catherine one last time, they said their goodbyes and Sara put her phone away. She was taking a sip of her tea when Betty returned. She was looking understandably tired but conflicted too. Plastering a smile on her face, Sara made the thumbs-up sign. "Everything okay?"

When Betty quietly shook her head in reply, Sara was filled with a deep sense of foreboding. The waitress walked up to their table, and both women sat back while she set the plates down. When the waitress bid them a cheerful "Enjoy your meal", Betty flashed a quick smile but Sara kept a straight face and fearful eyes on her mother-in-law.

Her day was about to get worse.


	37. Chapter 37

Grissom sat on his own in the chow hall in front of his uneaten dinner, oblivious of the noise and chatter around him. His mind whirred as he stared unseeingly at a coffee stain on the table, a half-eaten sandwich in his hand. He was torn and struggled to believe that Mr Martinez's daughter had anything to do with Sara's kidnapping and subsequent blackmail. He had to admit however that the chain of events was all a little too coincidental for his liking and worth checking out.

Mr Martinez had still been in hospital during the trial – the only time he and Grissom had met was the evening of the accident – but Marisa and her husband had been present both days. He remembered clearly how heartbroken Marisa had been, how open she was with her grief, how outraged she had been when he was given what she considered too lenient a sentence. He'd kept his gaze shamefully averted to the floor during the trial and subsequent verdict but, the few times he'd glanced up to look at her and their eyes had met, he'd seen unconcealed hatred there, contempt and resentment too.

He hadn't expected any less. Those were feelings he'd shared at the time and understood. Could her father's death have triggered those emotions in her again, he wondered now, precipitating a need for revenge? Losing both parents like that had to be tough, and she was right to hold him responsible.

A tray clattered to the floor, and refocusing he brought the sandwich to his mouth and forced down the mouthful. He rubbed at his face, checked the time on his watch. He would wait until just before the computer room closed for the night to go and check his email. He hoped Brass or Sara, or both, would have had time to send him an update by then.

"Hey, Grissom," Mitch said, drawing him out of his musing. "This seat's taken?"

Looking up, Grissom gave Mitch a wry half-smile. "Be my guest."

Mitch set his food tray down before straddling the welded-to-the-table steel stool. Without ceremony, he grabbed a slice of Bologna and placed it between two slices of buttered bread. Bringing the sandwich to his mouth with both hands, he took a hearty bite. "You're not hungry?" he asked, chewing vigorously.

Grissom looked at the ham sandwich in his hand and tossing it onto his tray shook his head.

His brow rising, Mitch took another big bite of his sandwich before reaching for his cup, rinsing his mouthful down. "Your wife okay?" he then asked.

Grissom stiffened. "She is," he replied finally, relaxing when he remembered that Mitch knew about the kidnapping.

Mitch gave a nod, made up a second sandwich. "I'm glad to hear it."

He watched Mitch carefully. "She—she came to visit today actually."

Mitch bit into the sandwich. "They caught who took her?"

Grissom shook his head. "Not yet."

As he chewed, Mitch pondered Grissom's words. "I hope they do."

Grissom reached for his cup of coffee and, pondering his own opinion on the matter, took a lukewarm sip.

"Wouldn't be fair otherwise, would it?" Mitch remarked, his mouth full.

"I guess not," he replied quietly, reaching for the pot of strawberry jelly on his tray. "Do…you still believe in the system after what happened to you?"

"Too damn right," Mitch replied categorically. "Society cannot function without it." Pausing, he used a finger to free food from his teeth.

Grissom gave a thoughtful nod, then looked down and slowly peeled back the lid on his jelly. Using his plastic spoon, he scooped out one mouthful. It certainly went down more easily than the sandwich.

"Do I wish I hadn't gotten caught?" Mitch went on, unprompted, putting more food into his mouth as he added, "Sure. But I did, and it was fair enough. I knew what I was getting into when I broke the law. I wanted to make more money than I was earning, and for a long time I did." He gave a mirthless laugh.

Interested, Grissom stopped eating. "Would you do things differently now?"

Mitch's expression darkened. "Sure. I learned too late that money's not everything."

Pondering his own situation, Grissom gave a nod. Then he thought about Manuel and what he'd told him once: that life was all about making the right choices, and he, like everyone else behind bars, had made at least one wrong one. With a sigh, he returned to eating his jelly.

"Do you…think it was random?" Mitch asked.

Grissom finished his mouthful before he spoke. "Do I think _what_ was random?"

"Your wife's kidnapping."

Grissom's ears pricking up, he scooped out another spoonful of jelly before looking back up. "I don't know," he said, putting the food into his mouth.

He just couldn't get a true measure of the man and wondered where he was going with the conversation, just couldn't figure out if Mitch was asking about Sara out of interest and curiosity, or if he had ulterior motives. Despite Brass's assertion that he couldn't link Mitch to the kidnapping, Grissom couldn't help thinking that asking for a ransom in Bit coins was well suited to a financial lawyer with a conviction for conspiring to commit securities and wire fraud.

"You…ever been to Jackson?" he asked, aiming for a matter-of-fact tone, hoping he'd succeeded.

"Jackson?" Mitch repeated, visibly puzzled by the change of topic.

"Mississippi."

Mitch pursed his lips thoughtfully. "I don't think so."

"So you don't know anyone there."

Mitch frowned. "No, why?"

"Just wondering." As casually as he could, he returned his attention to his jelly, scraping the last few dregs out of the pot.

Mitch's face softened with a smile. "The further east I've been is Las Vegas."

Again, Grissom stiffened.

Mitch pushed his glasses up his nose. "Been there a few times actually. Both for work and pleasure. Lost a shit ton of money too." He gave his head a shake in disbelief. "Had money to lose then, of course. It's all gone now."

"That's Sin City for you." He kept his tone light as he held Mitch's gaze and tried to remember exactly what he'd let slip in his moment of madness before he'd been sent to the hole. Mitch knew he was from Las Vegas, and wary the conversation would soon move onto more personal grounds, he considered what to say next carefully.

"'This is the end result of all the bright lights,'" he said, in his best De Niro voice, "'and the comp trips, and all the champagne, and free hotel suites, and all the broads and all the booze. It's all been arranged just for us to get your money'." He watched Mitch's face carefully as he spoke, gauging for minute changes in his expression that would betray the fact that Mitch knew more about him than he was letting on, but got nothing. Mitch's face just lit up with recognition at the quote and that almost immediately.

"Ace Rothstein, from Casino, 1995. I _love_ that movie. Not so much your De Niro impression."

Grissom burst out laughing while smiling widely Mitch returned to scarfing the rest of his food down. It was clearly possible, Grissom thought as he watched Mitch eat, that their paths had crossed in Vegas, but if they had he didn't remember. And yet Mitch thought he did.

"You're not going to eat this?" Mitch went on, motioning at Grissom's untouched bread and ham.

Grissom refocused on his tray with a start and shook his head. They weren't allowed to take any food out of the dinner hall, or barter it, so Mitch might as well eat it. "You can have it if you want."

"You sure?"

Grissom nodded.

Glancing over his shoulder to make sure an officer wasn't nearby, Mitch reached across to Grissom's tray. "Thank you," he said, immediately putting the sandwich together and taking a bite.

Grissom's lips twisted in amusement. "You ran out of commissary food?"

Mitch gave a sheepish shrug. "Is it that obvious?" He gave Grissom a wide grin. "Beggars can't be choosers, huh? It makes me sick just thinking about all the good food I wasted in the past. If only I'd known."

Indeed, Grissom thought. With the benefit of hindsight, they'd all do everything differently. He reached for his apple and began eating it while Mitch prattled on about this and that, about how two cold meals a day at the weekends was criminal, how he'd been out in the yard playing softball all afternoon, which explained why he was sore and so hungry. Grissom was happy to let him talk; it was a welcomed, if only momentary, distraction.

"Want to play some chess," Mitch said when both trays were empty.

Grissom looked at his watch and nodded his head. He still had a couple of hours to kill until the computer room would shut. After disposing of their trays, Grissom went to get his chess game and glasses from his locker while Mitch went to the bathroom. In the dayroom, Grissom scanned his eyes for a free table and finally finding one weaved his way over to it. Sitting down he put his glasses on. He was setting the board up when Mitch slid into the seat across from him.

"I'm ready to whip your ass," he said, rubbing his hands together gleefully.

Smirking, Grissom looked up at Mitch over the rim of his glasses. That was all the challenge he needed. A few men gathered to watch, and he made his typical opening move of sliding a white pawn to D4. Without wasting time, Mitch moved his knight to F6, and they were off. All noise receded, his mind fully on winning the game. Mitch was a worthy opponent, matching every one of Grissom's attacking moves with great defensive ones. He had to think hard, constantly reviewing his strategy. Without realising, he found that he was enjoying himself.

He was about to play his winning move when he remembered he still needed to check his emails. He glanced at his watch, his eyes widening at how late it already was. Without a word, he pushed to his feet, much to Mitch's puzzlement.

"Where are you going?" the latter asked.

"There's something I got to do," Grissom said.

Mitch was staring at Grissom with amazement. "What? Now? Can't it wait until we finish the game?"

Grissom paused. Then he slid his rook to G3, looked up from the board and smiled. "Checkmate."

"Oh, come on!" Mitch exclaimed, a deep frown creasing his brow as dropping his gaze he studied the board.

Grissom slipped his glasses off. "You keep practising. I'll be back in twenty minutes."

His eyes still on the board as he clearly wondered where he'd gone wrong, Mitch nodded his head distractedly.

Grissom rushed away, but the computer room was always busy on a Saturday evening and then was no exception. Cursing himself for losing track of time the way he had, he joined the short line. As he waited, he kept stealing impatient glances at his watch, silently urging people on and hoping he'd get a turn. It was close to ten to seven when a computer finally freed up for him. He sat down, put his glasses on and hurriedly logged on. There were two emails waiting for him, the first one from Sara, the other from Brass. Sara's had been delivered first, so he clicked on it.

 _Gil,_ she wrote.

 _Back at the hotel_. _We're both quite tired so we're going to eat local and have an early night before the drive back tomorrow. It was good to see you today, and yesterday, and I hope you feel a little better. I wish we could have had longer together, but a month will fly by, you'll see._

 _I called Catherine and then Jim and told both about you know what. Both said they'd look into it, and we agreed Jim would email you as soon as he found anything – if indeed there's anything to find._

 _Catherine finally received a reply from M this morning. Ten BC is what they wants. It's about 50G. Can you believe it?_

As he read, he smiled at how cryptic she was being, wondered whether it had aroused more suspicion than if she'd just told him everything quite plainly. But as the message had been approved and delivered, he guessed not.

 _Call Monday, usual time. I'll be waiting._

 _Stay strong,_

 _Your loving, Sara._

Her closing words brought tears to his eyes. Casting a surreptitious look about him, he clicked on reply, told her he'd call on Monday just after nine, then thanked her again for everything she did for him and wished her and his mother a nice evening and a safe journey back. Conscious of the time, he opened Brass's message and smiled. Brass didn't share Sara's qualms about how forthright and open he should be with his news. It was clear however, from the thorough background check on Marisa Baker and her immediate family that he had conducted, that he'd taken Sara's suspicions seriously.

 _Marisa Baker, husband and two children_ , _all share the same home address in Port Arthur, Texas. Have lived there for the last twelve years._

 _Marisa, 46, an only child, works at the local Home Depot, has done for the last ten years while her husband, Paul Baker, 52, is a long-haul truck driver with UPS. Or rather, was. Worked for the company for twenty years. Lost his job about a year ago. I'm still looking into why. Doesn't look like he's worked since. Both have debts to their name, mortgage arrears on the house. Neither has a criminal record._

 _Which can't be said for the son, Luis Baker, 22. Unemployed. He's done several stretches in the local jails, mainly for petty theft, public intoxication and disorder and auto theft. The last one was for possession of marijuana. Released a month ago. Timewise it could fit._

 _The daughter, Isabel Baker, 19, also lives at home. Unmarried. Unemployed. Mother to an eighteen-month-old girl. She's clean._

 _I'm still waiting to hear back from Catherine on the rest. Will email again as soon as I do._

 _Jim._

Grissom let out a long breath, then read the email again. Sure, the Bakers had their issues, but it didn't make them master criminals. It bothered him that Moneypenny had asked for the ransom to be paid in Bit coins. He wished he had access to the internet so he could do his own research into the cryptocurrency. To him dealing in Bit coins implied a greater knowledge of computer software and programming than the common man, or woman, usually had. What about hardware? That cost money. Unless, of course, it wasn't Moneypenny's first time – fifty thousand dollars was a considerable sum of money to extort.

The officer called time. Startling out of his thoughts, Grissom typed a quick "Thanks, Jim," before clicking on send and logging off. Removing his glasses, he rubbed at his tired eyes, then left the computer room at speed. A man on a mission, he didn't go back to the dayroom but instead headed straight to his dorm. He undid the padlock on his locker, reached for his writing paper and a pen and sat down at the table. A few of his dorm mates were chatting and playing cards nearby, others listened to music. He tuned them all out.

He wished he could speak with Catherine in person, felt bad that the only reason he wanted to talk to her was because he needed her help with the case. Still, he would write to her. He needed to apologise for keeping her in the dark anyway and if in the process he mentioned Bit coins and asked if she knew how the system worked then so be it. Catherine would know, and if she didn't then she'd know someone in the FBI who did. Knowing her, she had probably done that already. After all, it was the feds' level of expertise.

After many false starts, he finally got going. He was half-way through the letter when he realised that by the time Catherine received it and wrote back to him with the answers to his questions Moneypenny would surely have been caught already. Giving a small growl of frustration, he balled up the letter. He felt so powerless, so dependent of others for news, for a breakthrough on the case, and not for the first time in the last few days wished he wasn't locked up. He was packing everything away when he remembered he still owed Catherine an apology.

With a sigh, he smoothed out the creases on the letter, crossed out some words, added a few more, and when he was satisfied with the result copied up the letter onto a new sheet. It barely covered one side. He was about to sign off when he paused, hesitating, and thought back to what Sara had said during the visit about building bridges. He dithered only briefly before deciding to ask Catherine for an up-to-date email address he could add to his Corrlinks account. That way, he wrote, they could message each other.

Hoping that went some way toward appeasing her, he signed his name, folded the letter and slid it in the envelope. He was writing Catherine's name on the envelope when he remembered she didn't live in Vegas anymore, not permanently anyway. He'd email Sara the next day; she'd know Catherine's new address. And if she didn't then he was sure she'd be more than happy to ask Catherine directly. The letter wouldn't go until Monday anyway, and at least now he'd written it. He felt quite good about it actually, as if he'd reached another milestone in the long road to some kind of recovery.

By the time he finished it was past 8pm. At a loss as to what to do until lights-out at eleven, he reached for Martin Luther King's biography and toeing his shoes off turned his pillow upright and made himself comfortable on his bed against it. He began to read, but when his mind refused to focus fully on the text he let it wander. He couldn't help thinking back to the visit earlier that day and the words of wisdom his mother had imparted. Dr Walker had said pretty much the same things to him not so long back. They were right of course. His future _was_ in his hands.

Betty had always been a great role model to him as he grew up. She had had many a hardship in her life, the first one coming at a very young age when she had lost her hearing, but she had always kept going, never faltering, it seemed, even after his father's sudden, untimely death or the various health issues she'd had since. He wished he had her strength.

"Hey, Grissom," Mitch's quiet voice said. "You sleeping?"

Grissom opened his eyes and found Mitch looking down at him.

"You left this behind," Mitch said, lifting Grissom's chess game in his eye line before setting it on the table next to his letter to Catherine.

"Thank you," Grissom said, swinging his legs over the edge of the cot as he closed the still open book.

"Everything okay?"

Grissom flashed a quick smile. "Sure."

Mitch waited for more, but when Grissom kept silent he just nodded his head again. "You're around tomorrow?"

Grissom chuckled. Where else would he be? Unless of course, Mitch assumed he had another visitor. "Yeah. I'm around tomorrow."

"Good, 'cos we need you."

Grissom frowned before his expression softened when he remembered that the softball tournament was taking place then. "You don't need me, but I appreciate the sentiment."

Mitch gave a nod, hesitated before turning to leave.

"Mitch?" Grissom called, setting the book down on the cot as he pushed to his stocking feet.

Stopping in his tracks, Mitch turned. Grissom moved to his locker and after undoing his padlock took out a chocolate protein bar from a pack of five he tossed over to Mitch.

"What's that for?" Mitch asked with puzzlement, catching it.

He was ambivalent and still didn't trust Mitch fully, worried it was only a matter of time before Mitch remembered where he knew him from. But Mitch was reaching out when not many people did, and he was grateful. "If we want to win tomorrow," he said, "we're going to need more than the crap they feed us for breakfast."

A wide smile broke across Mitch's face and he nodded his head in understanding. "I'll see you in the yard after the 9am count."

The events from the previous days finally caught up with him and Grissom slept well that night, waking with the buzzer the next morning. He felt good, almost refreshed. He went through his early morning routine, had breakfast and then got dressed in shorts and one of the white T-shirts Sara had sent him. How long had it been since his legs had seen the light of day, he wondered? On habit, he checked his abdomen but his injury had long healed.

As an afterthought, he put a protein bar in his shorts pocket for lunch – assuming he lasted that long. He hesitated briefly, wondering whether to check his emails before he went to the yard, but opted not to. Sara and his mother would be heading back to Vegas, and he decided that whatever other news there may be could wait. It wasn't like he could do anything about it anyway.

The yard was full and noisy, and it took him a few minutes to spot Mitch. The day was warm but overcast, a blessing really because the area around the dirt pitch provided very little shelter from the sun. After some arguing over order of play, the first game finally got underway. Grissom started off watching and cheering various teams, then got talked into umpiring and finally playing for his unit as little by little players grew bored or tired or got injured and dropped out. Aside from the correctional officers, some watching from afar, others from the baseline, they could be in any ballpark. It felt good to be outdoors and involved again. For a few hours, his mind was free, the demons quietened.

Afterwards, back indoors, he grabbed his wash things, towel and a clean uniform and headed straight for the showers, joining the long line of dirty and sweaty men there. The mood was still upbeat, the banter flowing and happy. He told Sara that the place was like college and, in times like this, it most definitely was.

When after dinner he finally logged on to a computer, there were two emails in his inbox. The first one was from Sara who wrote, _Arrived home safely. Will chat tomorrow. Sleep tight. Love, S._

Her message was very short, by her standards anyway, but he figured she was tired after all the driving. Taking a steadying breath, he clicked on the second one.

 _Catherine called. FBI did their magic. Traced the number for the burner back to Verizon Wireless. Burner started its life in Jackson, Mississippi. That's where the texts to Dooley's cell were sent from. But wait for it. Even though the cell is now off, it's still communicating with cell phone towers. The signal it's emitting now locks onto a Verizon tower in Port Arthur, TX._

 _FBI won't proceed until they get the IP address for the Hushmail account._

 _But we got her, Gil. We got Moneypenny._

Grissom looked up from the computer screen and sighed.

He should have rejoiced at the news, but he didn't.

He just felt incredibly sad.

Because ultimately _he_ was responsible.


	38. Chapter 38

"Good news about Moneypenny," DB told Sara, putting the last of his omelette in his mouth.

"It's not a done deal yet," Sara replied, smiling softly as she looked up from the coffee cup she'd been staring at.

Tuning into Sara and DB's conversation, Finn, Greg and Nick stopped talking.

"Still," DB went on. "It's only a matter of time before the FBI makes an arrest."

Smiling, Sara nodded her head. "Catherine was great. She put all their resources behind it."

"Is that the Catherine that worked at the lab before I joined?" Finn asked, interested.

"That's right," Nick said, flicking his eyes over to her. "She's working for the FBI now. In the Los Angeles field office."

"The FBI," Finn mused. "I got through to phase 2 of the selection process."

"I did not know that," DB exclaimed, surprised.

"Oh, that was… _way_ before we met. Before I became a CSI even."

"I didn't think you could remember that far back," Greg piped up, a teasing smile on his lips.

Finn pulled a face at him, and they laughed.

"So, huh, what happened?" Nick asked, refocusing her.

"Don't tell me," DB said. "They kicked you out for being insubordinate."

"Nah. I quit," Finn said breezily, not needing any prompting to go on to tell them the whole story.

Sara was pleased the conversation had shifted away from her. Every time the kidnapping or Moneypenny was mentioned at the lab she worried someone would let slip about the link with Grissom. It was one thing their close friends knowing the truth of his whereabouts and how the kidnapping had presumably come about, but the whole of the lab? Sara wasn't comfortable with that, and she knew Grissom wouldn't be either.

While finishing her breakfast, she listened as Finn regaled her rapt audience with a few anecdotes, but soon her thoughts drifted to Betty and the surgery she'd just undergone, and then to Grissom whom she hadn't told and hated keeping in the dark. But Betty had made her promise she wouldn't tell him until after the fact, until they knew more anyway, and so far she'd kept her word.

Not telling him had been hard though when they'd spoken on the phone the previous day and he'd asked if everything was okay. She'd replied a breezy "Sure" before swiftly asking about him. If he'd suspected something was the matter, he hadn't let on.

"Sara, is everything okay?" Finn asked quietly, her tone full of concern.

Sara refocused with a start. "Sure. Sorry." She had been so lost in thought that she hadn't noticed Greg wasn't sitting next to her anymore. She gave her head a shake and Finn a smile. "I just…zoned out for a moment."

"You've been zoning out a lot recently," Finn remarked, making quote marks around 'zoning out' with her fingers.

When Sara didn't reply, Finn's gaze narrowed probingly, questioningly.

"It's my mother-in-law," she said in a sigh. "She's in hospital."

Finn registered a look of surprise. "Your mother-in-law?" she exclaimed, loud enough to interrupt Nick and DB's conversation. "You're still in touch with her?"

Her eyes flicking over to Nick and DB watching her with intent, Sara gave a soft nod.

"Is she okay?" Nick asked, looking and sounding concerned.

"She is," Sara said, giving him a soft smile.

"Is it to do with that flu thing she had a few weeks back?"

"Indirectly," she replied. She looked over to Finn and DB, hesitating only briefly before deciding to tell them the truth. What did it matter if they knew about Betty? "She—she had surgery to remove a basal cell carcinoma."

"Skin cancer?" DB said, his downcast expression mirroring his tone of voice.

Again, Sara nodded her head.

" _Who_ has skin cancer?" Greg asked, sliding onto the bench next to Sara.

"Betty," Sara replied quietly, turning toward him.

"Oh, shit," he said, his hand immediately lifting to her shoulder and patting warmly. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Hear, hear," DB and Nick concurred.

"From what I understand," Sara said, "it's not the first one she's had removed. It was on her neck." Her hand lifted to the right side of her neck, just below the jaw. "Just here. It's normally an outpatient procedure but because of her age they kept her in overnight. She sent me a text this morning. Said she'd had a good night."

Nick, Greg and DB were watching Sara expectantly, a clear 'Does Grissom know?' in their eyes, and Finn's gaze narrowed suspiciously. "What?" she asked, eyes flicking between each man in turn. "What do you all know that I don't?"

Sara sighed. Would a partial lie get her out of this sticky situation, she wondered? "My mystery boyfriend," she said finally. "You know, the one that's made me happier these days," she went on, quoting Finn's words.

Finn's face softened with mischief. "What? The one I'm not supposed to know you spent this last weekend with?"

Sara nodded. "Well, he's not a boyfriend as such."

Finn's frown returned. "I don't get it. If he's not your boyfriend—" Her eyes widening suddenly, she stopped in her tracks. "Oh, my God, Sara. You got yourself a _girl_ friend? Like a _girlfriend_ girlfriend, not a _girl_ friend?"

Sara registered a look of surprise. "What? No," she denied in a nervous chuckle, while Nick, DB and Greg badly stifled their amusement. She elbowed Greg in the side before giving Finn a sheepish smile. "No. It's…not a girlfriend."

"I don't get it."

Sara took a breath, held Finn's gaze levelly as she spoke. "My mystery boyfriend is my husband, Finn. That's who I've been seeing again."

Finn flicked a look of utter disbelief over her four companions. "What?"

Sara shrugged. She looked over at Greg who gave her an encouraging smile. "Not so mysterious after all, huh?"

"Oh, Sara," Finn said, looking and sounding disapproving now. "I can't believe that you're back with him, after all the crap he's put you through."

"Finn," Nick interjected, his tone soft, mildly scolding.

"What?" she exclaimed, affronted now, whipping her head toward Nick. "The man's been nothing but a jerk to her."

Sara desperately wanted to defend Grissom but, unwilling to divulge more than she had already done, held her tongue.

"Come on now, Finn," Greg said, placating. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"And you do, do you?" Finn's eyes narrowed before a wry smile of realisation formed, twisting her lips. "Clearly you do." Head shaking, she turned her attention to DB. "You too?"

His gaze averting, DB gave a nod and Finn turned incredulous eyes on Sara. "I thought we were friends." There was no mistaking the disappointment and feelings of betrayal in Finn's tone.

"We are," Sara defended fervently. She reached a conciliatory hand across the table toward Finn who ignored it. How could the mood sour so quickly, so suddenly, Sara wondered?

"But not friends enough so you'd tell me you and hubby have shacked up together again, huh?"

"It's not like that." Sara dropped her hand but kept it on the table.

"Oh, isn't it?" Finn sounded hurt now.

"Strictly speaking," Nick said, with a comforting smile at Sara, "you can't _shack_ up if you're married."

Finn's lips twisted with contempt. It was clear his attempt at lightening the mood wasn't appreciated.

"Oh, come on, Finn," DB said, showing impatience and exasperation at her reaction. "Surely it's up to Sara what and when she tells people."

"She told all of you, didn't she?"

"Well, strictly speaking," Nick said, wincing, "She didn't."

"She told me," Greg interjected quietly.

Sara nudged his elbow. "You're not helping." She looked over at Finn and sighed, hesitating.

"You know what, Sara?" Finn said, reaching for her purse on the floor as she pushed to her feet. "Don't bother."

"Finn!" Sara exclaimed, fervently enough as to keep her in place, and stood up too. "Don't be like that. Sit back down please." She kept her voice soft and coaxing. "Let me explain."

Turning, Finn stared at Sara briefly before doing as bid. Blowing a breath, Sara followed suit. She looked over at her friends hesitantly, and Greg gave her hand a warm, supportive squeeze. Opting to tell Finn the whole truth before their friendship was irretrievably ruined, she cast her eye out to the tables nearby to make sure they couldn't be overheard.

"Gil is…" The words were hard to say and, feeling tears rise, she lifted her shoulder in a small shrug. "Gil's in prison," she finally said in a whisper, holding Finn's angry stare as she wiped a quick knuckle to her eye.

"What?"

"He's in prison," she made herself say again. "That's why I didn't tell you."

Finn opened her mouth, only to shut it, visibly struggling to process the revelation. "I'm sorry, Sara," she finally said, looking suitably chastised. "I had no idea."

"Well, that's the thing," Sara said, smiling sadly. "Neither did I."

Finn nodded her head, dropped her eyes. "I'm sorry. Me and my size 9s." Reaching for Sara's hand, she gave her head a shake. "How long have you known?"

"Since May?" With a sigh, Sara went on to tell Finn about the car accident he'd caused and the subsequent guilty plea. She kept her account brief, matter-of-fact, leaving out the link with her kidnapping. "I'm sorry I couldn't tell you," she said finally. "I—I wanted to – more than once. But well, you don't know him." She glanced at Nick and Greg. "You only know what you heard, what I told you, and for a long time I was so angry and bitter at him that I said things I didn't mean. Things that aren't true. I—"

"You know what, Sara?" Finn cut in softly. "You don't have to explain. All I need to know is that overall you've been happier these last six months than I ever saw you since we've known each other."

A soft smile forming, Sara gave a nod. "I have. Very much so." She sighed. "If I couldn't tell you the truth, it wasn't for me, because I'm ashamed or anything, but Gil, well, he's finding it hard to cope."

Finn scoffed. "I don't think I'd cope either." She paused. "When is he coming out?"

"Within the next six months?"

Finn gave a nod. "I look forward to meeting him. I look forward to meeting the guy who could win your heart and keep it all this time and that despite everything that happened between you." She glanced at Nick. **"** Nick once told me that…Grissom? Do I call him Grissom?"

Smiling, Sara nodded.

"Well, that he was the one for you. That you and him had a _thing_." Finn pronounced the word with a strong Texan twang.

One brow rising, Sara turned toward Nick, mimicking Finn's speech. "A _thing_?"

Nick was looking contrite. "I believe I said _connection_ ," he said, addressing Finn and then looking earnestly at Sara, "And I was only defending you. It was before I found out the truth anyway. I wasn't—"

Sara lifted his hand, stopping him in his tracks. "Don't worry about it. But a _thing_ , huh?" she said again, making him blush.

Nick's visible embarrassment made everyone laugh.

"What pisses me off though…" Finn went on.

"Oh, there we go again," DB interjected, laughing.

"…is that I'm the last one to find out." Finn looked pointedly at Nick, DB and Greg. "Because I am, aren't I?"

"Hodges doesn't know," Greg remarked lightly.

"Neither does Morgan," Sara said more solemnly.

"But her father knows," Nick said. "Brass had to tell him. He had no choice if he wanted to be able to speak with Grissom directly after…you know…you got taken."

This gave Sara pause.

"Conrad hasn't told Morgan," DB said categorically. "He told me he wouldn't."

Sara gave a nod. Then she gave Finn a pointed look and Finn pretended to zip her lips shut. "I won't breathe a word to anyone."

"Thank you."

"So, this long weekend?"

Sara's smile returned. "I went to see him."

"I bet he was pleased to see you after what happened."

Sara's expression softened lovingly. "He was."

Finn gave a thoughtful nod, then she smiled and touched Sara's hand. "I'm happy for you. I really am."

"Thanks, Finn," Sara said.

"So, does Grissom know about Mrs G?" Nick asked, after a beat in silence.

Sara's expression darkened again and she shook her head. "Not yet. We wanted to wait until after the op – well, it's not an operation, more a procedure – before we told him. Betty's coming home today and I said I'd pick her up." She checked her watch. "Actually, I ought to go." She grabbed her purse, looking inside for some money.

"It's okay," Finn said. "This one's on me. It's the least I can do."

Sara paused. "You don't have to do that."

"I want to."

Sara gave Finn a warm smile.

"Yeah, thanks, Finn," Greg and Nick said.

"I'm not forking out for yours," Finn said, laughing. "Just Sara's."

DB caught her eye and held it probingly, and thanking him for his concern with a smile she nodded that she was fine. She said her goodbyes, giving everyone hugs, grateful she had such supporting friends in her life, and left. She knew she would be all they'd talk about now that she was gone, but she didn't care. She trusted them and knew they had her best interests at heart - including Finn.

As she drove the thirty-minute commute to the Surgical Dermatology and Laser Centre on the edge of Spring Valley, she realised that Finn was the first person she told about Grissom that didn't know him personally. She knew Morgan would have to be told next. She, Finn and Sara saw each other socially too often for it to remain a secret much longer. A smile formed. At least now, she wouldn't have to pretend anymore and hide the reason for her happiness.

She was crossing the parking lot over to the Centre's entrance when she checked her cell and found a text from Betty. _Waiting in the lobby. Don't rush. All's well._ Smiling, she walked through the automatic doors, slid her sunglasses up to the top of her head and then scanned her eyes over the smart lobby, finally locating Betty sitting on a small couch over by the water cooler, reading a magazine. Sara walked over to her, then tapped her gently on the shoulder.

Looking up with a smile, Betty set the magazine down on a low table nearby and reaching for her overnight bag pushed to her feet. She looked well and rested, the only outward sign of the surgery a small self-adhesive dressing on her neck.

"Everything okay?" Sara signed.

Betty gave a nod. "The doctor thinks he got it all."

Sara stared at Betty questioningly and laughing Betty crossed her heart. "I have an appointment next week, but the doctor is optimistic they removed it all."

Her expression relaxing, Sara nodded her head, then touched Betty on the arm affectionately. She insisted on carrying Betty's bag, and after a quick word with the clerk at the front desk to say Betty was leaving, they went on their way. They had been in a roadside diner, headed back to Bakersfield from visiting Grissom, when Betty had shown her the cancerous lesion on her neck and told her that surgery was scheduled to remove it on the Tuesday. It was a small, barely noticeable blemish. It wasn't the first time or a big deal, Betty had insisted, but still it had come as a blow.

"Do you need anything?" Sara signed after starting the car. "Food, medication?"

Betty shook her head softly. "I have everything I need. Besides, it's not like I'm bedridden."

Sara watched her with disbelief.

"I'm fine, Sara," Betty insisted, laughing. "I promise."

"Okay," she signed, giving a grudging nod, and paused. "Can I tell Gil now?"

Betty's face softened and she nodded her head in agreement before lifting a flat right hand to her chin in thanks. "I know you didn't like not telling him," she signed.

Sara shrugged. "Too many secrets already."

Betty's expression darkened as again she nodded her head. "You're right. And I was going to tell him, but…" Betty dropped her hands and shrugged and Sara understood all she wasn't signing, that getting the news of Mr Martinez's death had put paid to her intentions.

Sara stroked her hand to Betty's arm. "It's okay," she signed, and smiled. "He'll understand." And she knew he would. After all, hadn't he done the same thing to them, albeit for a year and half?

Betty mustered a smile before she raised her hand to her chin, once again thanking Sara. "Tell him I'll email soon."

Sara nodded her head. Then she slid her sunglasses back onto her face, backed the Honda out of the space and left the Centre. The drive to Betty's apartment was quiet but quick, the traffic fluid at that time of day. Sara pulled up in a free spot, killed the engine and pressed the button to open the trunk, and the pair got out of the car.

"I'll come up with you," Sara signed, pointing toward the apartment complex, when Betty tried to take her overnight bag from her.

Betty waved both hands in the negative. "It's not necessary. You go home and catch some sleep. You got work tonight."

Sara paused. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. I'm going to take it easy, I promise." Betty decisively took the bag from Sara's hand.

"You text if you need anything, okay?"

Betty gave her a definite nod, and the two women embraced warmly. Betty thanked Sara again, then gave her a small wave and turning on her heels walked over to the entrance. Sara waited until the front door had fully closed behind Betty to close the trunk and get back behind the wheel. Already, she was rehearsing what and how she'd tell Grissom so as to cushion the blow.

When fifteen minutes later she backed the Honda up on her driveway, she cut the engine, stifled a yawn and then rummaged in her purse for her front door keys. Immediately on alert, she scanned her eyes up and down the street before she got out of the car and quickly went to check the mailbox. Keeping her eyes on the road, she grabbed the small stack and hurried to her front door and inside the house. She knew the chances of a repeat kidnapping were slim, but until Moneypenny was behind bars she didn't take any chances.

It was only when she'd disabled the alarm and shut and locked the door behind her that she flicked through the mail. There was one letter with a prison logo on it, not from Grissom as she expected but from Manuel. Breaking into a wide smile, she immediately opened the letter and scanned its content. His news was heart-warming, the tone of the letter so positive and cheerful that she couldn't wait to tell Grissom. It would go a little way toward lifting his spirits after she told him about his other.

She dumped the rest of the mail, keys and her purse on the hall table, took off her jacket and boots and went to the kitchen. There she poured herself a glass of water she took to the bedroom and made space for on the bedside table. Her laptop was on the bed where she'd left it the previous evening and, sitting cross-legged, she opened the lid, put in her password and connected to Grissom's Corrlinks account.

 _I've got news!_ she typed. _Call if you can. About 7pm would be good. I promise not to use up too many minutes._

 _Hope you're having a good day._

 _I love you,_

 _Sara._

No sooner had she clicked on send than the house phone rang. Lifting a wry brow, she looked at the lit-up device on her bedside table and giggling reached to pick it up.

"Gil?"

"Huh, nope," said a laughing voice.

"Catherine! I'm sorry." Sara gave her head a shake. "I thought you were Gil."

"Not last time I checked. I'm not waking you, am I?"

"No," Sara said, closing the laptop lid and making herself comfortable on the bed. "I just got back from breakfast with the guys."

"How's everyone?"

"You know, same as usual, just a little older."

Catherine laughed. "Tell me about it. I just tried your cell but—"

"It's in my purse," she said, stifling a yawn. "Sorry."

"It's okay. I won't keep you up. I just called to say we've made two arrests."

Sara's heartbeat quickened with anticipation. "Marisa?"

"And her boyfriend."

Sara registered a look of surprise. "Boyfriend?"

"Who would have thought, huh?" There was no mistaking the cynicism in Catherine's tone. "The IP address from the Hushmail account led us to a Peter Ellis. He's domiciled in Jackson, Mississippi, but the internet connection on his laptop led us to an address in—"

"Let me guess…Port Arthur."

"Orange, ten miles east of Port Arthur. But close enough. He was staying at a motel on the outskirts of town. He's a systems analyst by trade."

"Well, that makes sense," Sara mused. "Gil was convinced Moneypenny had advanced computer skills."

"He was right. There's no way Marisa alone could have done it."

"And the husband?"

"A bit of a bum actually. Got a drink problem, from what I heard. We took him in for questioning, but he didn't know anything about your kidnapping, or what his wife was up to with the boyfriend. We found the cell they used to call Dooley in Marisa's purse, but no evidence to link the husband to the kidnapping or blackmailing."

"So, what? Marisa and this Peter Ellis were going to run off with the money?"

"Pretty much yeah," Catherine said, laughing. "They hooked up online, some dating site or other I forget the name of right now. Met a few times after that. When her father died, Marisa came up with the idea of the kidnapping and blackmail. The boyfriend executed it. We got the laptop he used. It's encrypted, but the guys are on it. Marisa's bag was packed. As soon as they had the money they were headed across the border to Mexico."

"Sounds like she wasn't happy."

"You can say that again."

Sara sighed. "Gil thought the kidnapping was his fault," she told Catherine quite candidly. "That she wanted revenge for what he did."

"Nah," Catherine said. "She was just after the money and a better life for herself. Maybe her parents were the only thing keeping her in Port Arthur. Once they died—"

"She's got two kids, Catherine, a granddaughter. Surely they count for something."

Catherine paused. "I don't know. Anyways, upshot is – we got them. So now the question is, will you tell Grissom, or shall I?"

Sara smiled. "I'll do it." Her smile faded. "Which reminds me…when we spoke on the phone yesterday Gil asked for your email address – a current one. He said he wrote you a letter too, you know, explaining. He's trying to build bridges, Catherine, so…please don't be too hard on him."

Catherine made a musing sound. "I guess that if he's _trying_ I can try too."

Sara's smile returned. "Thank you."

As the conversation drew to a close, she got off the bed and went to retrieve her cell from her purse, noticing the missed call and subsequent voicemail from Catherine, but no text from Betty. Afterwards, feeling a lot lighter and brighter than she had in days she had a quick shower and got ready for bed.

Things were looking up for them at last, she thought as finally, gratefully, she slipped into bed.

Seven pm couldn't come fast enough.


	39. Chapter 39

Grissom was first in line to use the pay phones. As he waited, he kept stealing glances at his watch. Wanting to let Sara catch as many minutes of sleep as she could, he refrained from calling early. She had said to call at seven, six o'clock Vegas time, and it was only ten to. Waiting times before booths freed up varied tremendously – especially at that time of day, which was why he preferred to call in the morning – and wary to miss his slot, he'd lined up early and kept his place in the line, merely letting people past if needed. Much to his fellow inmates' bewilderment, and sometime gratitude.

Sara's email had been upbeat, he'd felt her excitement through the short text, and he assumed she had news of Moneypenny's arrest to share with him. Part of him felt relieved because, with Moneypenny off the streets, Sara wasn't at risk anymore, well no more than usual anyway. But the other part, the bigger part maybe if he was truly honest with himself, felt tense and apprehensive, his feelings of guilt never far. If Marisa Baker was indeed Moneypenny as the evidence strongly suggested then she'd only taken Sara to get back at him for destroying her family.

With a sigh, he gave his head a shake and checking his watch again shuffled his feet a little closer to the booths. The next one that freed up was his. When the minute hand reached seven, it was all he could do not to tap on someone's shoulder and tell them to beat it, that it was his turn now. Unwilling to start a riot, he impatiently watched the second hand continue round the dial, counting every second of tardiness. "Oh, come on," he urged under his breath when he reached sixty, which amazingly did the trick.

An inmate to his right hung up and no sooner had he walked away than Grissom swooped down, hurriedly picking up the still warm receiver and beginning the long, frustrating process before he was finally connected. Sara picked up on the second ring and taking a big breath he willed his racing heart to calm.

"Hi, sweetheart," he replied to her greeting, a loving smile instinctively forming at the sound of her voice. "Did you sleep well?"

"As a matter of fact I did," she answered breezily. "Like a baby. First good night sleep I've had in ages."

His smile widened. "I'm glad to hear it. When's your next night off?"

"Next Friday. But I'm doing fine, okay?" she said, pre-empting his next words and adding before he could interject, "You had a good day?"

"Oh, you know. Same old, same old."

"Well, I'm just about to break your monotonous day with a little good news. Three lots of good news in fact," she added happily. "Which one do you want first?"

Three? Grissom gave his head a shake in surprise. "I don't know," he said, laughing. Her excitement was contagious. "If they're all good news, what does it matter?"

"Fair enough. Catherine called," she said. "They caught Moneypenny."

His smile fading, he gave a nod. "I was expecting that. Mr and Mrs Martinez's daughter?"

"Yes. And some guy called Peter Ellis she met online. He's a systems analyst."

Grissom's brow rose. Even though he'd always suspected that someone with somewhat advanced computer knowledge was involved the news that Marisa's accomplice was unrelated to her was unexpected. "Have they known each other long?"

"A few months? I'm not entirely sure."

"And no one else is involved?"

"It doesn't look like it."

He gave a thoughtful nod.

"Sounds like they cooked up the kidnapping and ransom demand together," Sara went on. "I don't know all the details, but the feds recovered a laptop from Ellis and the burner used to contact Dooley and his acolytes was in Marisa's possession. We got them, Gil. We got them both."

He gave his head another wordless nod.

"You okay?" she asked a little tentatively when he kept silent.

Grissom cleared his voice. "Sure. Sorry." He scratched at the stubble on his cheek. "I was just…thinking."

Her voice was muffled now and he imagined her with the phone wedged against her ear. "Catherine said that they were headed to Mexico. Their bags were packed. She was prepared to leave everything behind including her children and granddaughter. Another day and hasta la vista, baby."

The reference made him smile.

Her voice sounded normal again. "They were caught short, Gil. They obviously didn't bank on the FBI getting involved and catching them so quickly. Without Catherine's involvement, we would have been too late. Once in Mexico…" She let her words trail off, and after a pause sighed. "What happened isn't your fault," she added pointedly, when silence once again stretched between them. "Marisa wasn't looking for revenge. She just wanted money to buy herself a better life."

He gave a gentle scoff. "Maybe." He let out a long breath, then gave his head a shake to rid himself of his sudden melancholy. "But enough about her. You said you had _three_ lots of good news. Come on, hit me with number two."

"Alright," she said, a smile in her voice, and then the words spilling out of her enthusiastically, "Manuel wrote."

"Oh," he said, his ears pricking interestedly, amusedly, as his smile returned. "And what did _she_ have to say for herself?"

" _She_ ," Sara said, emphasising the pronoun to make up for her earlier faux pas, "said that she's doing well. That she's loving being outdoors all day. That she never wants to…"

"Sara?" he called when she stopped dead. Looking at the receiver, he frowned and wondered if he'd run out of minutes and they'd been cut off. "Sara, you still there?"

"Sorry. Yes. Huh, she had good news."

His frown deepened. "Good news?"

"She got her GED results, Gil. She's passed them all."

Grissom's eyes widened. "All of them? Even English?"

Sara laughed. "Yep. You sound surprised. You should give her more credit."

"I do. It's just…well, with everything that's happened I thought he—she might have lost momentum."

"Well, evidently she didn't. You've been a good teacher to her, Gil, a good role model. She says so in the letter."

Grissom smiled. "I wish I could read it for myself."

"What? You don't trust me?"

He laughed. "You know I do," he said solemnly. "With my life."

Sara scoffed, but the slight wobble in her voice told him she was touched by his words. "Well, you can read the letter for yourself very soon, and write back too."

Her words gave him pause. "When you write her tell her I'm really pleased for her."

"I will."

"And proud too," he added sincerely. Feeling himself well up, he turned away from prying eyes.

"I will," she repeated quietly. "She's looking forward to the future now, thinking of taking up a job with the Forestry Service. Says they need volunteers." She paused, asking when silence once again built on the line, "Gil?"

Quickly, he wiped at his wet eyes. "Tell her I'm…flabbergasted. In a good way. And use that word. That'll give her something to chew on, especially if she can't get her hand on a dictionary."

Sara laughed.

"Tell her she's doing everything right."

"She says she wants you two to meet up, you know, after," she continued hesitantly. "If you want to."

Grissom nodded, pondered his reply only briefly. "Tell her I'd like that too," he said quite candidly, and smiled when he realised that it was true. If one good thing could come out of his crime and subsequent term in prison then let that be rehabilitation for Manuel. And it came to him then. Without the crash, he wouldn't have been sent to Beaumont. Without his time in Beaumont, he wouldn't have met Manuel and helped the young Hispanic change his life around. Had he helped all that much, he wondered then?

"Gil, there's something else I need to speak to you about," she said, drawing him out of his musings, "and I know the meter's running. My third good news. Well…"

The guardedness and hesitancy in her tone set alarm bells ringing. "Go on."

"I'm just going to…" She took a deep breath. "Your mother had an operation yesterday, but she's absolutely fine."

Grissom's heart sank, and he closed his eyes.

"Well, it was more a procedure than an operation really, but she had to stay overnight. I took her home earlier today."

He nodded his head resignedly. He didn't like being told after the fact but what could he do now? And getting angry with Sara about it wouldn't achieve anything. "What was it?" he asked in a small voice.

"They removed a basal cell carcinoma on her neck. It's a non-melanoma skin cancer. I looked it up. It's the most common type of skin cancer, the least likely to spread to other parts. It's—"

"I know what it is," he cut in sombrely. "She's had BCCs removed before," he said. "Three to be exact. The last one was on her nose." He gave a sad chuckle. "She couldn't wear her glasses for a week." He sighed. "Did they do Mohs surgery on her?"

"Yes. They did."

"Good," he said in a sigh.

"She said the doc caught it early. When she went to her physician for that flu thing, he noticed a small mark on her neck, like eczema. He told her to go get it checked out by a dermatologist. So she did. They did a biopsy, which came back positive. I never even noticed it."

 _Neither did I_ , he thought, thinking back to their visit the previous week. "When you…when you came to visit, did you know?" he asked in a hesitant voice, hating the thought that she'd hidden that knowledge from him.

"No," she said categorically. "She told me on Saturday after we saw you when we stopped at the diner on the way back to the hotel. All she said was – well, she wrote it down," she amended with a scoff. "Anyway, she just told me she had an appointment with the dermatologist on Monday to remove the cancer. She made me promise," she insisted, "not to say anything until after the fact. She said she was going to tell you, you know, when we saw you on Saturday but—"

"I got the news that Mr Martinez's had died," he cut in knowingly.

"And she thought it was enough bad news for one day."

"It's okay," he said, making a mental note to email his mother as soon as the computer room opened the next day and put her mind at rest. "I understand."

"Good, 'cause I hated keeping it from you." Her voice sounded distant, as if she'd put him on speakerphone.

He thought he heard the shower door slide open, water being turned on."What are you doing?" he asked, a smile forming at the thought that she was headed to the shower.

"What do _you_ think I'm doing?" she replied, her voice taking on a sultry tone that made his heartbeat quicken in anticipation.

His smile widening, he closed his eyes and watched in his mind's eye as she got undressed in front of the mirror and then tied her hair back in a ponytail.

"So are you coming?" she called.

He brought the receiver closer to his ear, lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper. "Oh, I'm there already."

The following Friday Grissom was in his dorm after breakfast when an officer walked up to him and wordlessly gave him a note instructing him to present himself to the unit office at 9am, that he had a visitor. He frowned. It wasn't a visit he'd approved, and he feared an unscheduled visit from his attorney would bring bad news. Was it to do with Mr Martinez's death, he wondered? Or his daughter's subsequent arrest? But why not contact him first to let him know? And if it wasn't his attorney, who else could it be? He checked his appearance in the mirror, then changed into his mandatory white and khaki visitation uniform. He would miss work that day, not a bad thing in itself.

After the usual thorough checks, instead of being taken to the visitation area as he had been the previous week when Sara and his mother had visited, he was taken to one of the attorney client visiting booths in the administration area. He wished he'd been given a little detail about the nature of the visit but as usual no one knew anything, or if they did they weren't sharing that information with him. The officer that escorted him stopped at a door and he did the same before holding his hands out so the handcuffs could be removed.

"I'll stay right here," the officer told him. "Just press the button when you're ready to be taken back."

Grissom gave a nod, then swallowed the constriction in his throat. "Thank you."

The officer knocked before opening the door. Grissom was about to step in when he stopped dead in his tracks. A wide, instinctive smile formed on his lips, and he shook his head in disbelief. Looking stern, Catherine stood up from the table she was sitting at. There was a closed file in front of her with the FBI logo embossed on the front of it. She wore a navy, impeccably cut suit and her blonde hair tied back in a fancy bun at the back, looking the perfect special agent. Aside from a few deeper lines around her eyes, she hadn't changed at all. He glanced at the officer and walked in, waiting until the officer had closed the door behind him to talk.

"Is this an official visit?"

"What do you think?" she replied, her face lighting up suddenly as she stepped round the table and opened her arms for a warm hug.

Smiling warmly back, Grissom wrapped his arms around Catherine and closing his eyes held her tightly for a long moment.

"You're looking well," she said, giving him an appraising look as she pulled back from him. "Changed but well."

He scoffed. "Thanks, I think. You're looking well too."

"Not changed?"

He shook his head. "Not much, no. Life in LA suiting you?"

"It's not Vegas, but I like it." Her smile faded. "If I'd known you'd moved so near I'd have come to visit sooner." There was no reproach in her voice, just sadness as she watched him with compassion.

Unable to hold her gaze, he looked down before bringing his eyes back up to hers resolutely. His voice was soft, apologetic. "Sara said she spoke to you. Explained?"

Her expression solemn, Catherine nodded. "She did."

His shoulder lifted. "I wasn't in a good place, Catherine." He gave a mirthless laugh. "Literally and figuratively. Shutting myself off from everyone was just…easier. Cowardly, but easier."

She stroked his arm affectionately. "I know. And now?"

"I'm in a much better place all around. I'm getting there, Catherine. Slowly, but surely."

Her face lit up with a smile. "I'm glad to hear it."

He licked his lips edgily. "Does Sara know?"

She dropped her hand. "That I'm here?"

He nodded his head softly.

"No. I didn't tell her. I didn't want to give you a chance to wriggle out of this encounter."

He cast a quick look about the Spartan room. "And how could I have done that?"

She shrugged. "Truth be told, I wanted to catch you by surprise. See your reaction when you saw me."

He laughed. "Did I pass?"

Her face softened. "You did. With flying colours." She motioned toward the file on the table. "Officially I'm here on business…Sara's case." He opened his mouth to interrupt, and she said, "You know everything there is to know right now." Pausing, she held his gaze meaningfully. "Unofficially, I'm here to see a friend, Gil." She reached for his hand and squeezed it. "A dear friend. And what happened hasn't changed that."

"Thank you," he said, returning the squeeze somewhat emotionally.

"I just wish I could have been there for you, that's all."

"I—I…" he sighed, faltering, and looked away in embarrassment.

"But it's okay. You don't have to say anything. I understand that you did what you had to do in order to cope. And it _looks_ and sounds like it worked." She gave him a smile, and dropping his hand indicated they should sit down. "Across the table from each other seems too…formal." She picked up her chair and nodded toward his side of the table. "You mind if I…?"

His smile returning, he shook his head in reply. "How's Lindsey? Your mom?" he asked, when both were sitting down.

"Oh, they're both well. I keep trying to get them to move to LA to be closer but they won't have any of it. Lindsey's studying criminology at UNLV, can you believe it?"

He watched Catherine fondly. "She's following in her mother's footsteps."

Catherine laughed. "I'm glad she skipped the whole pole dancing period then."

"There's still time," he remarked with an amused twitch of his lips.

"Don't!" she exclaimed, batting her hand to his arm playfully. "Her head is more screwed on than mine ever was at that age, that's for sure."

"She has a good role model," he said, meaning the words, and thought back to what Sara had said about him being a good role model to Manuel.

Her expression softened tenderly. "Thank you. It means a lot you saying that."

Grissom gave an uncomfortable nod. "You got my letter?"

"I did."

"Listen Catherine, I—I want to thank you again. You know. For everything. For being here today and making it so easy for me—"

"I've had time to calm down," she cut in, chuckling, "and think about everything from your point of view."

He nodded his head in gratitude. "I also want to thank you for all your help with the case, Sara's case. It means a lot." He paused, gave a long sigh. "I felt so helpless, so powerless to help, so out of the loop..."

"Hey, don't mention it alright?" she cut in when he hesitated, her tone soft. "You would have done the same for me. In fact, I'm sure, one time or other, you already did. You and me, we've known each other what? Twenty years? We got each other's backs. We're a team, right? Not just you and me, but the guys back home too. We stick together; look out for one another. We may all be in different places, but it doesn't change the fact that we're still a team. A team you built up, Gil."

"I don't know about that," he said, glancing away awkwardly.

"I do," Catherine insisted soberly. "Anyway, enough about that," she went on, smiling again when he looked back at her. "Tell me about you. I can't tell you how…happy I was when Sara told me that the two of you had…reconnected."

Looking down, he smiled a little diffidently. "Me too."

"She mentioned you got yourself a job?"

He burst out laughing. "Oh, Catherine, if only you knew."

When she prompted him further, he told her about his routine life in prison. How against all odds he had adapted. How he was a lot happier since Sara had come back into his life, how she'd given his life meaning again, but also since he'd been transferred to Taft despite missing his old work in the yard and his old cellie. Catherine listened intently, only punctuating his speech with nods and smiles or questions that got him talking more.

He found himself talking quite openly and very animatedly about Manuel. When Catherine expressed surprised at the fact that he'd struck such a strong friendship with another inmate he could only shrug his shoulder and grudgingly admit that that he'd been drawn to Manuel right from the start because he reminded him so much of a young, impetuous Warrick. They talked fondly about Warrick for a while before they got lost in their own recollections and lapsed into silence.

"I haven't been to his grave for a long time," Catherine admitted quietly.

"Me either," he replied sadly, before his lips twisted in a wry smile.

"Maybe we can go together," she went on hesitantly, "When you come out."

"I'd like that. I'd like that very much."

"What else have you got planned for when you get out?"

The question caught him off guard. "Not that much," he said at last. "I just want to go home. I want to go home and be with Sara. Make up for all the harm I did her. Did everyone. I want to be there when she gets home from the lab and cook her breakfast while she tells me about her night. I want to be able to go to the store, walk down the street, or to the park and just sit on a bench with the local paper. And Sara, of course," he added, with a sheepish smile. "I want to be able to take my mother to the farmers' market and buy ice cream. Spend time with the people I love. I haven't thought much past that."

Catherine's eyes shone with tears and she wiped at them quickly. "Well, that's as good a start as any," she said in a chuckle. "And I would _love_ to go to the farmers' market with you, Sara and your mother and for you to buy me ice cream." A wide smile was pulling at her lips. "Do you know how long it's been since I did that?"

He gave his head a shake.

She laughed. "Neither do I."

"You got yourself a second date then," he said.

She nodded. "Talking about dates. You got one for your release? Sara said within five to six months?"

He shrugged. "You know how the system works. Fingers crossed."

That night as he lay in his cot, he thought back to what he'd told Catherine about his plans for the future. He'd spoken from the heart and meant every word he'd said. He realised then that his feelings of anger and bitterness, shame and self-loathing, and guilt, weren't so all-consuming and defining anymore. At last, he was beginning to imagine a future with love and happiness, a future where he would make up for his past mistakes and just like he had told Catherine spend time with the people he loved.

As it was, two weeks later, Grissom finally got an appointment to see his case manager.

He was hoping for a release date.

Instead, he was told that he was being moved again.


	40. Chapter 40

"Hey Jim," Sara said, smiling when he looked up as she approached.

"Hey," he returned, and set his cup of coffee down.

He half stood while she leaned down and they embraced warmly.

"Good shift?" he asked, as pulling apart he sat back down.

Sliding onto the bench across from him, Sara tucked her purse by her side. "Boring shift. I was stuck in the lab all night watching CCTV."

Brass scoffed. "I'm glad I thought to call then."

Picking up a menu, she grinned pleasurably. "I'm glad you did too."

His eyes lingered on her face. "You're looking good."

"I feel good," she replied sincerely.

"So the Moneypenny business?"

"Well and truly behind me now."

"Until the trial, huh."

Her smile fading, she gave a nod. She'd had a few nightmares over the weeks since her kidnapping, but her feelings of paranoia and need to check and double check the street and house every time she came home were easing.

"You got a date?"

"For the trial?" She shook her head. "No, not yet. Not before February anyway." He gave her a nod, then a soft smile, and she turned her attention to the menu. "So, you know what you're having?"

"I do." He sounded smug.

A wry twisting her lips, she glanced up over the top of her menu. "Something meaty, I'll bet."

A server walked up to their table, refocusing the pair before Brass could retort. "Coffee?" he asked Sara, coffeepot in hand.

She sat back so he could pour coffee into her cup. "Thank you."

The server turned toward Brass, silently offering him a top up.

"I'm fine, thanks."

"You're ready to order?" the server then asked.

Brass glanced at Sara. She nodded her head and then placed her order. Giving her a long sideways look, Brass gingerly followed suit and she laughed.

"What?" he asked, feigning innocence, as soon as the server was out of earshot. "I'm hungry. Besides, meat is good for you, and that's a fact."

Sara pursed her face at him, but opted not to push the point further. She had tried many times to convert him over the years, and knew when to declare defeat. Instead, she busied herself unrolling the cutlery out of her paper napkin.

"All set to visit Gil next week?" he asked, swiftly changing tack.

"Yep." She picked up her coffee, blew on it to cool it down. "Betty and I, we can't wait. A month is a long time." Keeping her eyes on her companion, she took a cautious sip.

Brass smiled. "I bet. But it's not for much longer. He heard from his case manager yet?"

Sara's face lighting up, she set her cup down. "As a matter of fact he's seeing him later today. He said he'd call tonight to let me know how it went." She crossed the index and middle fingers of both hands. "Fingers crossed it's good news. I know he said not to get my hopes up but I'm hoping he finally gets a release date."

Brass reached his hand to Sara's on the table and patted warmly. "I hope so too. And then what? A halfway house somewhere?"

She gave a lengthy sigh. "I guess so."

"It won't be for long." Brass picked up his coffee and took a sip, seemingly pondering his next words. "Has he talked about what he's going to do afterwards? I mean, when he's back home?"

Sara's smile faded. "He's mentioned a few things here and there. But no, not really," she went on, her shoulder lifting, "Not long term. And I haven't asked him either." Truth be told, she'd wanted to broach the subject with him several times but had never really got the opportunity, or rather fear had stopped her from taking the opportunity when it had arisen. Where was the rush anyway? She just wanted him home, the rest would hopefully work itself out.

"There's still plenty of time," Brass said, his voice as soft and comforting as his tentative smile.

She nodded, then thinking back to the last conversation she'd had with Grissom flicked her gaze over Brass's shoulder toward the rest of the diner. As they sipped their coffees, a comfortable silence built between them, punctuated only by the humdrum chatter from nearby tables and the scraping of plates and cutlery. And then she remembered.

"Actually, Jim, there's something I want to—"

"Here you go," the server said, placing large oval plates in front of them. "Cheese egg omelette for Madam and ham, bacon and sausage and three fried eggs for you, Sir. Both with homefries and toast. Anything else I can help you with?"

"No, thank you," Sara and Brass replied at the same time.

"Enjoy your breakfast."

"You're going to have to help me out, Jim," Sara said, laughing as she stared at her plate with disbelief. "There's no way I'm going to eat everything."

"Only if you help me out with mine."

Sara made a face and they laughed. She picked up her knife and fork, then watched, a fond smile on her lips, as without ceremony Brass cut into his ham and sausage before stabbing his egg and spreading yolk over the meat, and bringing everything to his mouth. As he chewed, he motioned to her plate with his knife.

"Come on," he said, "you can't let me eat on my own. You're making me self-conscious."

Chuckling in disbelief, Sara looked down at her plate and speared a fry and then another, and another.

"You began to say something," Brass said, his mouth full when they were half-way through their food. "Before."

A forkful of cheesy egg poised near her mouth, Sara looked up. "Before?"

"Before the food came."

"Oh." Nodding, Sara put the food into her mouth. "I was just thinking…" Pausing, she finished chewing and watched Brass expectantly. "I've been thinking of…getting a dog."

Brass finished his mouthful. "A dog?" He frowned. "Like a guard dog? For protection? You worried about your safety? I thought you said things were getting better."

"No." She gave her head a shake. "They are. No. Nothing like that. I was thinking of getting…a normal dog, you know, for company. Like a rescue dog. For Gil," she added, when Brass just stared at her with puzzlement, "For when he comes out."

"Ah." He returned to his food, putting more into his mouth.

Sara gingerly followed suit. "I just thought, you know, that it could be good for him. Give some structure to his days. Give him something to look after."

"He's got you to look after."

Sara smiled. "You know how work is. Sometimes I can be at work for twelve hours straight. Longer even. But if you think it's a bad idea—"

As he chewed, Brass raised his fork, stopping her. "No. I don't think that at all." He paused, finished his mouthful. "You worried he's going to get bored when he's home alone, is that it?"

She sighed. She wasn't worried about him being bored as much as him becoming down and depressed. He'd been doing so much better lately, but she'd read about how difficult it was for inmates to adapt back to life on the outside after confinement, especially if they didn't have a job to go back to. And Grissom had no job to return to. "I worry he'll be lonely. I mean, right now, he's locked up with hundreds, if not, thousands of men. He's used to crowds, he's used to noise. His days are so structured, so—"

"Don't you think that maybe he's looking forward to a reprieve from all that? To being alone and having a little peace and quiet? A little space? To doing what he wants when he wants to?"

She averted her eyes to her plate uncertainly.

Brass put down his fork and reached across for her hand. "It _will_ take a while for him to adjust, you're right about that. But he will adjust." Sara gave a nod and, withdrawing his hand, he resumed eating. "I get that you're anxious about his release, but I think you're overthinking things."

"Don't get me wrong," she said heatedly, feeling the need to defend herself even though she knew Brass wasn't judging her. "I can't wait to have him back."

"I know," he said, reassuringly. "And it's normal to be feeling the way you do, to be thinking about everything, plan for the future and try to make his return as easy as you can." He held her gaze steadily. "And there will be hurdles. I'd be lying if I told you otherwise. But with you by his side he'll overcome them."

Mustering a grateful smile at the vehemence of his words, Sara once again nodded her head and even though she wasn't hungry any more put another fry into her mouth.

"But that's not what's truly bothering you, is it?" Brass said, and she looked up. His gaze was narrowed, as he studied her intently.

She took in a deep breath she let out slowly and shook her head despondently.

"Sara?" he prompted, visibly concerned when she dithered.

If it wasn't Brass sitting across from her she knew she wouldn't open up. "I worry about how it's going to be between us," she finally admitted in a small voice, her shoulder lifting self-consciously. "I mean we're closer now than we've been for a long time but, you know, we haven't been _together_ together in so long—" Unable to voice her deepest doubts and misgivings, even to Brass, she gave her head a shake. "It's stupid. I'm being stupid."

"No, you're not. You have concerns and rightly so. Two and a bit years _is_ a long time, and you're bound to have changed. Both of you. But Sara, you've got to trust in the two of you and the bond you share, trust in the love you have for one another."

She gave a sad smile. "That's what I keep telling myself."

"Just take one day at a time. And deal with issues as they arise. Whatever they are. And to go back to your initial question, I think getting a dog is a brilliant idea. It'll give him something to focus on other than you and himself." Brass smiled. "Remember when he got Hank?"

Her smile widening, Sara gave a nod.

"He wasn't sure he was doing the right thing then either." Brass used the last of his toast to wipe his plate clean before putting it into his mouth. "You spoke to him about it?"

She shook her head. "No. It was just…an idea really."

"Well, I think it's a good one, so go for it."

When Sara got home, there was a letter from Grissom waiting in the mailbox. A smile on her face, she quickly made her way indoors. She disabled the alarm, locked the front door again and dumped her jacket, purse and boots by the hall table. In the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of water she had a sip of and then took to the bedroom to drink. There, she closed the curtains before taking off her work clothes she discarded in a pile at the end of her bed, and headed to the bathroom to take care of business, brush her teeth and clean her face. Ready for bed, she put her pyjama on and after turning the bedside lamp on made herself comfortable, cross-legged on the bed.

Her smile returning, she picked up the letter, slid her finger under the flap and took out the _three_ sheets of paper. Her smile grew pleasurably as angling the letter to the light she began to read. You would have thought that after all these months corresponding, and especially since they spoke on the phone three times a week, they would be running out of things to say. Once again, he mentioned the chess tournament he and Mitch had organised for the following Sunday and Sara was pleased at how excited he sounded at the prospect.

When he talked about Christmas, only three weeks away, and what his unit had planned to celebrate, her smile turned wistful. She and Betty had met the previous week and carefully put together his next care package. As well as the usual food, drinks and toiletry items, they had included a couple of books – Christmas presents – they hoped would be of interest to him. This would be the third Christmas in a row they wouldn't spend together, but she and Betty had planned a meal together on Christmas day and she knew he would be there with them, in spirit if not in body.

After reading his letter, she retrieved her laptop, put in her password and scanned her eyes over the many dogfaces staring back at her on the screen. She wanted to get a dog as a surprise for him, but would it backfire on her? Or would he get the symbolism of giving an old, abandoned dog a second chance at life? With a sigh, she closed the lid on the laptop, tidied the letter away and after turning the light off slipped into bed. He would call in a few hours, and she hoped he had good news.

She felt she'd only been asleep five minutes when the bedside phone rang. Groggily she checked the time on the device – it was four pm, two hours too early to be Grissom – and her heart sinking at the thought that it was dispatch calling connected the call. "Hello," she said, and sitting up in bed rubbed at her eyes.

"Honey, it's me."

Immediately on alert, Sara sat up straighter in bed and turned on the bedside lamp. "Gil, I wasn't expecting your call until later."

"I'm sorry, but I got some news and I…didn't want to have to wait to tell you."

His despondent tone told her the meeting with his case manager hadn't gone according to plan. "Hey, it's okay," she said. Knowing how disappointed he would be, she kept her voice light and soothing and pulled her legs up to her chest, bracing herself for his bad news. "Your meeting with the case manager didn't go well?"

"They're moving me again, Sara," he said quietly. "That's what the meeting was about. I'm shipping out of here next Tuesday. I'm sorry."

Not again, she thought, tears filling her eyes, and brought a closed fist to her mouth. "Hey, it's not your fault," she said, doing her best to swallow her disappointment. "That's just how the system works." And then it occurred to her. "Oh, Gil, next Tuesday? But that's just before we were due to visit."

"I know. I'm sorry. The visit's been cancelled."

Sara closed her eyes and took a breath, swallowed the constriction in her throat. She would be strong for him and not show her distress. "Not cancelled. Just postponed," she said softly. "And we know what to expect this time. _I_ know what to expect."

She heard a strange sound, like a strangled sound. Was he crying? "Will you tell Mom?"

She frowned. It wasn't tears she could hear in his voice now, but laughter. Her puzzlement intensified. Was he having some sort of breakdown? "Gil, I'm worried about you. Are you okay?"

"Oh, Sara, I'm sorry," he said, chuckling louder. "I couldn't resist! Sure I'm okay."

"I don't understand," she said, giving her head a shake.

"I was just…messing with you. I'm sorry."

She pressed the phone closer to her ear. "You're not moving?"

"No, I am. I am moving."

"Gil, you're not making sense."

"They're shipping me out of here to the camp next door, Sara," he exclaimed enthusiastically.

She got off the bed and began pacing. She still wasn't getting it. "The camp?" He made it sound like moving to the camp was good news, and normally it would be, and yet. "How is that good news when it means Friday's visit is cancelled?"

All trace of levity left his voice. "They approved my early release, Sara," he said, solemn now. "All I'm waiting for is an exact date."

The penny finally dropped and she stopped dead in her tracks. "They…what?" Tears filled her eyes again, but this time they were happy tears. "Oh, my God, Gil, that's great! Why didn't you just say?"

"Because I'm a fool?" His voice grew thick with emotion as he spoke. "They're moving me to the camp for a few weeks and then to…"

"To where?" she prompted when he faltered. "A halfway house?"

"No." Again, she heard emotion in his voice. "No halfway house for me, well, not like you understand it. My case manager said the BOP had approved my application for home confinement."

Her gaze narrowed. "Home confinement?" she repeated, the words not quite sinking in. "As in, home? Here in Vegas?" she squealed in disbelief.

"Well, yes," he said, laughing now. "Provided you're happy with it of course. I mean, you've had the house to yourself for a long time now—"

"Oh, Gil," she cut in, her tears spilling. "How can you say that? I can't wait for you to be home again."

"I can't wait to be home either," he said earnestly, and let out a long breath. "Oh, Sara, if only you knew how much."

She closed her eyes. "I think I can guess."

"But it's not a done deal yet, okay? So it's best we don't get carried away too much. My transfer still needs to be approved by the Las Vegas Parole and Probation office. The _house_ needs to be checked and approved too. _You_ need to be checked and approved."

She sat at the edge of the bed. "Surely that's just a formality."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you? My case manager is cautiously optimistic. Because of my disciplinary record and the non-violent nature of my conviction he doesn't see any reasons why my transfer shouldn't go ahead."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Then I'll stay at the camp until the day of my release."

"Gil, you're coming home!" she exclaimed, the alternative unconceivable right then.

He laughed again.

"Why didn't you tell me you were applying?"

"I didn't want to get your hopes up. I mean, I probably will have to wear one of those electronic monitoring ankle bracelets, you know, to restrict my movement as a condition of parole and I would also have to present myself to a halfway house I'd be registered with in Vegas every week, but—"

"You'll be living at home, Gil. I don't care about the rest." She wiped at a fresh wave of tears, her relief at the news still overwhelming in its intensity. "I am so…happy," she said in a choked whisper. "And I know your mother will be too."

There was a pause. "I'm going to go email her as soon as we've finished talking. And I'm sorry about the stunt I pulled earlier."

She pulled a face. "So you should be."

"I was so excited; I just couldn't wait to tell you." He paused. "I promise to make it up to you. When I come out."

Sara's smile returned. "I can't wait."

"Me either."

"How do you feel about moving again?" she asked, when silence briefly stretched between them. "I mean to the camp's good, isn't it?"

"It takes me a step closer to home, Sara, the rest isn't important." He sighed. "I'm sorry that next Friday's visit has to be cancelled though, and depending on how long I'm to stay at the camp we might not be able to organise another one. You know what it's like." Scratching at her bare leg, she gave a silent nod. "I'll have to submit my lists all over again and it'll be a few day until they get approved. And also remember that my privileges won't be reinstated for at least a week. So no mail or email or phone calls."

"I know, and it's okay. I'm ready for it this time." She closed her eyes and took a deep breath she released slowly. "I'm so happy, Gil. So happy."

"Me too," he laughed.

"The light is getting brighter."

"It's so bright it's almost blinding," he said, and paused. "You know I love you, right? So very much."

His words were so unprompted, so unexpected that she felt herself grow emotional again. "I love you too."

There was a beat in silence. "I ought to go," he then said. "Let you get back to sleep."

She got off the bed and opened her curtains. "Back to sleep? You kidding me? I'm too excited for sleep!"

"You should try anyway. I'll call again on Sunday, alright? After the chess tournament. That'll be the last time. We can use up all my minutes."

"I want to hear all about how you won."

"You got yourself a date."

A wide, dancing smile formed on her lips. "I look forward to it. As I look forward to having you home again."

"Me too. I got to go now. Bye, bye, Love."

"I love you."

He returned the sentiment before hanging up and it was with a heavy heart that Sara did the same. She picked up her half-full glass of tepid water from the bedside table and drank thirstily from it. After a short trip to the bathroom, she slid back into bed and lay on her back, her eyes wide open. He'd said that he'd be at the camp for a few weeks.

She laughed.

A few weeks.

That was no time at all.


	41. Chapter 41

"Hey, Grissom."

Grissom looked up over the top of his glasses to find correctional officer Rivera standing in front of him. He was looking down at the law books and legal documents spread out on the table Grissom had been working on. "Something the matter, officer?" Grissom asked, putting his pen down a little edgily. He'd been at the small legal library a couple of hours now, trying to get through all the legal paperwork he'd agreed to look over before he was due to be shipped out the following Tuesday.

Refocusing on Grissom, Rivera gave a tight smile. "You're still one player short?"

Grissom gave his head a shake before it dawned on him that Rivera was talking about the chess tournament he was helping organise. "Yeah," he replied, "we are."

"You're not thinking of cancelling the whole thing, are you?"

Grissom frowned. "No. We were just…going to pull one name out of a hat – well, so to speak – and give that person a free pass to the second round. We're playing elimination-style."

Rivera nodded his head, but it was clear something was on his mind.

"Why?" Grissom asked, his brow creasing further as he removed his glasses.

Rivera gave a casual shrug of his shoulder. "You think I could…you know…fill the gap?"

"In the tournament?"

"Why not?" Rivera replied.

Grissom registered a look of surprise. Briefly he wondered whether the inmates taking part would object and maybe want to pull out of the competition if a correctional officer took part, but then remembered how much more relaxed the atmosphere had been during the softball tournament when COs and inmates had been happy to mix and interact. And besides, Officer Rivera was fair and respectful, one of the more popular officers in the unit. "Sure," he finally said, "Why not? As long as the warden's fine with it."

"He's fine with it. Why wouldn't he be?"

Grissom shrugged. "Okay." He pursed his face enquiringly. "And presumably you can play?"

"Oh, yeah," Rivera replied, smiling widely, "I can play."

Grissom's gaze narrowed. Something about the CO's demeanour told him that maybe he'd been played and he shouldn't have agreed so easily. But then again, he figured, a little worthy competition would make the game more interesting. "All right." He picked up his pen and slipped on his glasses, pulled out the list of inmates that had entered the competition from under his stack of legal papers and added Rivera's name to it. "We're drawing names in about an hour," he said, checking the time on his watch.

"The common room?"

From the corner of his eye, Grissom saw Mitch arrive and hang back when he noticed Officer Rivera talking to him. "Yep," he replied, refocusing on the officer.

Rivera gave a nod. "I'll be there." He gave Grissom another tight smile and walked away.

Pursing his face thoughtfully, Grissom watched him go.

"The tournament's still going ahead tomorrow, isn't it?" Mitch asked in a loud whisper, sounding a little fearful as he strode over.

Grissom looked over to him. "Sure. And now we even got ourselves an even number of players."

Mitch whipped is head round toward where Rivera had been but the officer had left the library. "Rivera?"

Grissom nodded. "Do you think it's going to be a problem?"

Pushing his glasses up his nose, Mitch took a seat opposite Grissom. He kept his voice very low as he spoke. "Only if he wins the damn thing. He can play, that's for sure."

Grissom eased a look around the small library but Rivera was well and truly gone. "How do you know?"

"We've played against each other a few times over the years." Mitch sighed and then raised his shoulders pitifully.

Grissom chuckled. "I take it from your glum expression that you didn't win."

"Nah. But there's a first time for everything, right?"

Grissom made a musing sound.

"What's the prize anyway?" Mitch asked. "You managed to sort one out?"

"As a matter of fact I did." Grissom smirked. "I got an unexpected package from Sara yesterday." Smiling, he thought back to his surprise when he got the package including books and treats she and his mother had bought for him as Christmas presents. "Anyways," he went on, giving his head a shake, and shrugged, feigning nonchalance, "Among the items, there was a jar of peanut butter, so I thought…" Knowing the reaction he was going to get, he let his words trail, but couldn't suppress the smug smile twitching at his lips.

Mitch's eyes widened. "Oh. My. God."

Grissom laughed. "That's exactly what I thought."

"Peanut butter," Mitch said musingly. "Wow, you can't get it in the store."

"I know."

"It's like…rarer than gold dust."

"I know," Grissom said again, laughing.

Mitch blew a long breath. "You got to keep it quiet," he went on earnestly, "Or someone will just spirit it away from your locker."

Grissom smiled. "Well, actually, I was going to tell everyone, you know, when we do the draw. Maybe that way we'd get more players wanting to play."

Mitch was staring at Grissom as if the latter was out of his mind. "Why would you want that?"

"Surely that's the point of a tournament, isn't it? To get people to take part?"

Mitch shook his head. "Huh. Huh. Not with a prize like that. Not if I'm going to win."

Grissom's smile widened. "Oh, you fancy yourself the winner, do you?"

Mitch cocked a brow. "I do. I've been working on my strategies. I think it's time I had my revenge. On you, but Rivera too, now that he's taking part. Time's running out, isn't it? Especially as someone's about to leave us."

Grissom considered Mitch's words. "Alright, we can keep the prize a secret – for now – for the sake of security. But don't think I'm going to make it easy for you."

"I know you won't. Fair's fair, remember?"

Grissom gave a nod. "But if Rivera is as good as you say he is, we might not even get to play against each other."

"You think we can somehow rig the draw?" Mitch asked, half-joking, half-serious.

Grissom laughed. "I have never _rigged_ anything in my life. I'm not about to start now."

Mitch pursed his face, then paused, hesitating, and glanced down at his hands on the table before looking back up to Grissom decisively.

"I'm telling you," Grissom insisted categorically. "I am _not_ fixing the game."

"That's not what I was thinking. When you lived in Vegas," Mitch went on, pushing his glasses up his nose, "you ever…entered the National Open? You know, the international chess festival?" He fixed Grissom with questioning eyes. "I'm thinking…1996?"

Grissom registered a look of surprise. "I did." He had entered the tournament five or six times in the eighties and four times in the early to mid-nineties, but not very many people knew that. The prize money wasn't great by Vegas standards but it had been more than enough to finance his other more unusual…hobbies.

"Even since you came here," Mitch said, refocusing him, "I've been…racking my brain, you know, trying to figure out where I might know you from, and I think I finally got it. We played against each other. At the tournament. You beat me. No, that's not true. You didn't beat me, you annihilated me."

Grissom opened his mouth and shut it again, only for his brow to crease as he tried to cast his mind back and conjure up a memory. If Mitch was right though, and he suspected he was, then he didn't recall his face from the many hundreds he'd come across at the various tournaments he'd entered over the years, whether he had thrashed said opponents or not.

"That's alright," Mitch said, with a self-deprecatory laugh. "I obviously didn't make as big an impression on you."

"I'm sorry. But you know what it's like. You meet a lot of people in those tournaments, and to be honest I try to focus on the game rather than the opponent. But I remember 1996 very clearly. I had to leave the tournament before the end."

"What happened?"

He laughed. "I got called into work. Didn't get any prize money that year."

"Ouch."

"Yeah, well, work got in the way a lot then." Pausing, he cast his eyes down. "So, you think Rivera can win tomorrow?" he went on, wanting to return to safer grounds.

"Well, that'll all depend on you, my friend. I don't think there's anyone else within these walls that can beat him. But God knows I'll try."

Grissom made another musing sound. "Maybe I should just…change the prize."

Mitch laughed. "I have a feeling you don't play for the prize," he said, holding Grissom's gaze levelly.

It was Grissom's turn to avert his eyes uncomfortably.

Mitch took in and let out a long noisy breath that made Grissom look back up again. "I know we haven't known each other long," Mitch said, his tone serious and contemplative now, "but…I'm going to miss you. You know, when you're gone. You kind of made a difference. To me anyway."

Embarrassed, Grissom looked down again.

"You don't have to reciprocate the sentiment," Mitch went on, laughing, causing Grissom to smile a little diffidently.

"You'll be out of here soon enough," he said, looking up.

Mitch made a face. "Provided I behave myself."

" _You_ said it."

Mitch made a musing sound. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm better off in here, locked up, away from the real world."

Grissom gave a thoughtful nod. The statement had been true for him too in the past, but Sara had changed his viewpoint. "You need to deal with your issues, not hide from them. It didn't do me any good and it won't you either."

"It's too late for that," Mitch remarked wryly. "For me anyway. Too much has happened."

"Not if you want it badly enough. Cliché, I know, but sadly true."

That Sunday evening, Grissom joined the long line for the phones with a smile on his face. The day had gone well, the chess tournament too, and he couldn't wait to tell Sara about it. He hadn't been the overall winner but he'd had a lot of fun trying. This would be his and Sara's last conversation before he was moved and they would use up every last second of whatever minutes he had left on his account. He checked the time on his watch – nearly 6.15pm – but Sara had the night off so it didn't matter that he was late.

He had written his final letters, one to her and the other to his mother, and he would post them the next day. They should receive them by the end of the week, before his privileges were restored probably by the following Monday. That way they'd get to hear from him, even if he was out of touch. He would be at his new facility by then of course. Well, provided everything went to plan. He wondered what it was like there, at the camp, without the perimeter fence. He wished the transfer had come after that Friday's visit, but hopefully the next time he saw Sara and his mother again he would be a free man.

A man on parole with an electronic bracelet around his ankle, but a free man nonetheless. There would be a dusk-to-dawn curfew and many other restrictions and somehow he would have to find employment of sorts but he would be free, at home and with the people he loved. He'd been thinking about his future a lot lately and even though the details were still sketchy he vowed that he would make amends for his past mistakes. His mind was clearer now, not so full of guilt and recriminations.

A booth freed up and, startling when he realised it was his turn, he took his place and made the debit call. Sara replied almost immediately, the customary cheer and warmth in her voice bringing unexpected tears to his eyes. He felt so lucky, so fortunate. He couldn't imagine a time now when she wasn't in his life, and didn't know how he'd survived all the long months when he'd voluntarily cut himself off. Pushing his melancholy aside, he plastered on his face a warm, loving smile he hoped she'd hear over the phone.

"Hi, honey."

"I thought you'd never call."

He turned his body away from prying ears and eyes. "Sorry. There was a long line. How are you?"

"I'm good. I'm good. You?"

"I'm good too. Rivera says thanks for the peanut butter by the way."

"Peanut butter? The one I sent you?" There was confusion in her voice.

"Yeah, I used it as prize for the chess tournament, and what a prize it was," he went on animatedly. "It almost started a riot, and that before we even got started!"

She laughed. "So you didn't win?"

"No," he said in a chuckle, "but I beat Mitch. Rivera was just too good. He beat me in the semi-finals." He went on to tell her about some of the moves he'd played, but how in the end he simply hadn't been good enough to beat Rivera who always seemed to keep one step ahead of him.

"Is Rivera new?" Sara asked afterwards. "You never mentioned him before."

Grissom cast a quick look around the hall to make sure Officer Rivera wasn't nearby. "He's one of the COs here," he said, keeping his voice low. "He asked if he could play. We were one player short so I said yes. Turns out he's some kind of chess whizz kid."

"Oh, my God, Gil," she exclaimed suddenly. "You got hustled!"

Grissom burst out laughing. "I did, didn't I?"

"And he kept the peanut butter?" There was disbelief in her voice now.

"Actually, he didn't." Laughing, Grissom shook his head, still incredulous at what had happened. "He got a few loaves of bread from the kitchen and made peanut butter sandwiches for everyone that took part. We had a bit of a feast actually. I hadn't had that much fun in a very long time." He paused, swallowed the sudden tightness in his throat the next recollection caused. "The guys, well, they gave me a bit of a send-off, you know, to wish me well. I haven't been with them all that long. It was kind of…nice. Unexpected."

His words must have given her pause because she didn't speak for long seconds. "You're going to miss the place?"

The question caught him by surprise. "Hell no. I can't wait to move so I can be a little closer to finally getting home."

"I can't wait for you to be home. I've decided to take some time off, you know, when you come out. A couple of weeks, maybe more."

A loving smile formed on his lips at her solicitude. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. I'll see what DB says—I haven't mentioned it to him yet. But I got plenty of vacation days to take, so it shouldn't be a problem. I just need a date."

He scoffed. "You'll know as soon as I do." He blew out a breath. "Won't be much of a vacation though. It's not like we'll be able to go anywhere far."

"I don't care about that. As long as we can take that trip to the Farmers' market, huh?"

His smile returned. "Don't forget the ice cream."

"I just want to have you back home and spend time with you."

"Me too." Her words, heartfelt and tender, warmed him and gave him hope for their future. He was so worried that after all this time apart things would be awkward between them, that maybe they had lost the deep, intrinsic bond they'd always shared. Yes, they had started to reconnect over the past few months, buthe had hurt and wronged her so badly. What if the resentment she'd felt at the start manifested itself again? What if he couldn't find work and became a burden to her? "So," he said, growing sad and emotional at the thought, "Tell me about you. What have you been up to?"

"Oh, you know, work mainly."

He frowned. Something in her tone told him she was holding back. "Sara? Has something happened you're not telling me?"

"No, not like you're thinking." She sighed. "There's something I've been—I want it to be a surprise, but I don't know."

His puzzlement intensified, and then panic set in at the thought that she was planning a 'Welcome Home' party for his return. Surely, she would know that such a party was the last thing he wanted. "A surprise?" he asked a little edgily. "What kind of surprise?"

There was a pause, and he braced himself for her reply. "I went to look around a dog rescue centre this afternoon."

Taken aback, he gave his head a shake. "Oh, yeah?"

"I've been thinking, you know, that maybe…we could give an old dog a home."

Recovering from his surprise, Grissom pinched his lips, but laughter bubbled out of him anyway. "You want to give an old dog a home?"

"Well, yes," she replied, sounding unsure, and then when he continued laughing, "Why not? Why is that so funny?"

He tried to curb his amusement. "Are you talking in riddles?"

"No, why?"

"Nothing, I just…" He laughed again. "For a minute there, I thought you were talking about me."

She scoffed. "Not everything is about you, Gil Grissom. I just thought that…well, I thought—"

Worried he'd vexed her by his reaction, he quickly sobered up. "Sara, I think it's a great idea."

"You do?"

He pondered his reply. "Yeah, I do." He thought about Hank and all the joy and laughter the Boxer had brought him – them – over the years. "So, did you see one you liked?"

She laughed. "I did. I saw several I liked actually. There was this big St Bernard called Bertie. Actually, _big_ doesn't do his size justice. He was huge." And for a moment, they talked about the many dogs she'd seen and their back stories and how happy they all were for the attention she gave them albeit for much too short a while. She was right; getting a dog was a good idea. It would give him something – someone – to focus on other than himself when Sara was at work or sleeping. And it would give that dog a second chance at a life with love and happiness. The symbolism wasn't lost on him.

"We can't have them all!" he said, laughing.

"I know."

He loved listening to her talk when she was so animated, so excited and he wished that they'd gotten a dog after Hank had died so that she wouldn't have been so alone over the last two years while he had been in prison. The conversation moved to Hank then, and they reminisced about some of his more memorable antics. That was when Grissom heard the telltale beeping on the line, announcing that they were running out of time. With a heavy heart, he looked at his watch. They had been talking for almost an hour.

"Listen, Sara, they're going to cut us off," he said when she stopped talking, "I'll email and call again as soon as I'm allowed, okay? It probably won't be before next Monday – at the earliest. "

"I know." She paused. "You take care of yourself, alright?"

"I will. And you do too, alright?"

"At least this time you haven't got far to travel." She paused, blew out a breath. "I'll be thinking of you. I love—"

One more beep and a recorded message informing him that he had run out of funds played over the phone. Sara had been cut off mid-sentence.

"I love you too," he said in a whisper, and slowly, grudgingly hung up the phone.

The transfer to the low-security camp next door couldn't have been any different from any of his previous transfers. He had time to prepare and say goodbye to the few inmates and COs he'd gotten to know – just about. He packed his regulatory three bags, gave all of the food he had left to Mitch and donated his chessboard to the unit. The paperwork he'd accumulated since being at Taft and wanted to keep he painstakingly mailed to Sara for safekeeping.

On Tuesday, he presented himself to the unit manager at seven-thirty am on the dot as instructed. He'd had a good night sleep and some breakfast, if no time for a shower. His belongings were checked, then taken from him to be processed. The usual body searches were carried out, and after he'd slipped on the mandatory transit uniform handcuffs were put on his wrists. He was escorted to the Receiving and Discharge area and then to the bullpen where an inmate he didn't know was already waiting.

He acknowledged his presence with a nod and taking a seat on the hard metal bench made eye contact with Officer Rivera who stood by the door, armed. No words were exchanged. An hour later, a second officer came into the room. Grissom's ankles were shackled, the other inmates' too, and then all four limbs were chained together before the handcuffs were locked in the mandatory plastic box. They were on the draft, prison talk for on the move. He prayed to God that for him anyway it was for the very last time.

"Good luck, Grissom," Officer Rivera said quietly as he clambered on board the bus.

The bus was already half-full, and he wondered how far they'd travelled from. He was instructed to take a seat at the front, which he would have done anyway. A ten-minute ride on the Blue Bird and he was at his destination. He could have walked it just as fast. He was the first of three inmates to get off. As he walked to the R&D area, he looked around the yard. There was no fence, and in the distance he saw the outer wall of the minimum-security complex he'd just come from and then desert as far as the eye could see.

By the time processing finished, it was late afternoon. His belongings hadn't been returned yet, and he wondered at the delay, hoped they hadn't got lost in the ten-minute transit. Dressed in his new uniform and carrying his bedding, a few basic hygiene items and his Admission and Orientation handbook, he was escorted to his housing unit. He'd missed dinner. That first night, as he lay on his back on his new cot, hands crossed under his head, he thought about Sara and the time when they would be properly reunited.

Could he be released in time for Christmas, he wondered? New Year maybe? Was that too much to ask? Too much to hope for? A wide smile on his face, he let his mind wander, imagined himself back home in bed with Sara lying tightly draped against him, the weight and warmth of her body so vivid that he could feel them. Letting out a long breath, he closed his eyes and felt a longing so profound that his body stirred.

A few weeks.

That was no time at all.


	42. Chapter 42

A/N: Some dialogue at the end consists of two Meat Loaf song titles. I'm sure you'll know them.

* * *

"It's okay," Sara said, her voice soft and soothing as she patted Mabel's side affectionately. "I'm not going for long, I promise. I know it's a little unsettling but you'll be fine at Betty's until tomorrow, won't you?"

She paused and smiled. Mabel was watching her intently, and she hoped that the dog understood what was happening and that she wasn't being abandoned. In the end, choosing Mabel had been easy for Sara. The eight-year-old Golden Retriever had been the oldest dog at the rescue centre, the quietest one too, the one who had made the least amount of fuss when Sara had looked around the place for the third time. Just like the previous two times, Mabel had remained curled up in her cage, with her paws tucked under herself, her head into her body and her tail around her face in a typical defensive pose.

Her eyes, however, dark and piercing, had told a different story. Wide and intent, they hadn't missed a beat as they tracked Sara's every move in the room, every interaction with the other dogs. When, drawn, Sara had looked over at her the dog had flicked her tail in the air once. That was acknowledgement enough for Sara. A wide, friendly smile on her face, she had slowly inched forward closer to the cage, a move the dog seemed to reciprocate, albeit cautiously, almost diffidently, until only the cage door stood between them.

Immediately recognising a kindred spirit in Mabel, Sara lifted her hand to the glass. Mabel's yearning to be chosen was just as great as that of all the other, more demonstrative, dogs there, but she was careful, acting as though she was afraid to show it, as though she'd gone through many a rejection already and feared another one. Sara understood that all too well. "Let's go home, shall we?" had been Sara's words to the dog, who pushing to her feet had given a single bark.

"When I get back," Sara told her now, returning to her packing, "Gil will be with me." Standing on her brand new and very plush dog bed, Mabel shook herself and Sara turned back to her with a smile. "You'll like him. I know you will, and he's going to love you."

Grissom was finally told his release date just before Christmas. They hoped he would be out in time for New Year, but the holidays and staff shortages had made that impossible. Still, the news was great, and Sara had carefully been planning his return ever since. She'd covered both the Christmas and New Year shifts so that she could have a full month off. Four weeks, not nearly long enough to make up for two years apart, but it was a start and it would have to do.

She'd spent the previous days cleaning and tidying the house and making space for his things. She had never taken down from the walls the many botanical and animal displays that adorned the den, but she'd now returned all the books, artefacts and memories she'd boxed up in the aftermath of the breakup but kept in the garage. What she had given away to thrift stores was irretrievably lost, but they had been possessions they could easily replace.

The valuables she'd taken to Betty's she'd retrieved the previous weekend. He had lost so much weight since the start of his incarceration that she didn't think he'd fit much of his old clothes anymore, but she'd returned them and his shoes to the left side of the closet anyway, his side, or to the many drawers that had once been his. Thinking that the last thing he'd want to do on his return was to go to the stores, she'd bought him new underwear and socks, a few plain T-shirts and a pair of slacks. She'd also stocked up the fridge and freezer with enough food to last them weeks.

She and Grissom hadn't spoken for three days, not since his privileges had once again been withdrawn, and that for the last time, and she hoped everything was still going according to plan. She'd wanted to take Mabel with her so that she and Grissom could get acquainted immediately, but he didn't think imposing such a long car journey on the dog was fair. He was right, of course, much to her disappointment. In the end, they'd agreed Mabel would stay with Betty.

In order to comply with the strict conditions of Grissom's transfer furlough which required him to head straight home after he'd presented himself to the halfway house on immediate arrival back to Las Vegas, Sara had arranged for Betty to drive over to their house with Mabel and share their first meal together. Even though Betty hadn't said anything, Sara knew how desperate she was to see her son, and she could well imagine Grissom would be relieved to see his mother fit and well too.

Her clothes packed, she went to the bathroom, zipped up her wash and makeup bags and put them in her case. She'd mailed a set of release clothing to his counsellor so Grissom had civilian clothes to wear, but to be on the safe side she added his well-worn UCLA sweater as well as some old jeans, that might or not fit him properly anymore. Pausing, she had a look around the room and satisfied that she had remembered everything closed the case. She checked the time. She was early.

He'd told her that he was excited about his release, but nervous too, that he wouldn't believe it was happening until he stood outside the prison with her in his arms. She shared in his fears. It all felt so strange, almost unreal, thinking that in a little over twenty-four hours he would be back home with her to stay. She was sure it would take some getting used to, on both sides, but she was confident they'd make it work. She'd promised herself to try not to overwhelm him, to let him adjust at his own pace. Brass had said it would take time and patience. She would give him both.

Under Mabel's watchful eyes, she loaded her case and messenger bag in the Honda and then the bag containing Mabel's things as well as the dog's new bedding. After checking the house one last time and making sure everything was as she wanted it for the next day, she enabled the alarm and locked up. Scared to be left behind, or maybe just as eager to get going as Sara was, Mabel was already waiting by the car. Sara opened the front door, slid the seat forward to let Mabel in and then took her place at the wheel.

She felt light-hearted and happy, almost on cloud nine. As she backed out of the drive, she looked in the rearview mirror, smiling when she caught a glimpse of the dog sitting up straight in the middle of the small backseat, her head almost touching the headliner. The image was so reminiscent of Hank in a similar stance that for a moment she was taken back in time. She gave her head a shake. "Come on," she said, laughing, "Let's go. Let's bring Daddy home."

The traffic was light and she got to Betty's in under twenty minutes. She and Mabel got out of the car and while the dog acquainted herself with the bushes she took what she needed from the trunk. Betty and Mabel had already met the previous weekend when the trio had gone for a long walk on one of the dog-friendly Peccole Ranch trails nearby and Sara hoped they would be fine in each other's company. Just about balancing all of Mabel's things and her messenger bag, Sara pressed the button on the intercom, smiled at the camera that fed the picture back to Betty and used her hip to push the door when it buzzed open.

A wide smile on her face, Betty was waiting at her open door. After taking some of Sara's load off her, she gave the dog a warm welcome. "Would you like some lunch?" she then asked Sara with her hands.

Sara brought a flat hand to her chin she lowered in thanks and shook her head. "I had a late breakfast. But a drink would be great."

"Tea?"

Sara's hand once again rose to her chin in thanks.

Betty nodded, then disappeared to the kitchen. Sara placed Mabel's bed in the corner of the room by the window and unpacked her water and food bowls, so the dog understood that she was there to stay. Mabel watched Sara with curious eyes for a moment before she looked over at her bed and then back at Sara.

Sara laughed. "That's right," she said, giving Mabel's ears a gentle rub. "You're staying here for the night. Betty will drop you back home tomorrow afternoon."

Mabel glanced at her bed again, as if saying "Just for tonight then," before she clambered on and curled herself up. Sitting on the floor beside her, Sara began patting her side warmly, instinctively. She was such a good dog. She was mentally checking her to-do list when she suddenly remembered she needed to give Betty keys to the house. Pushing to her feet, she retrieved the spare set from her messenger bag and wrote down on the pad she always carried with her these days the code to disable the alarm.

When Betty returned with two steaming mugs of tea she set down on coasters on the coffee table, Sara held up the spare keys and paper with the alarm code on and handed them to Betty. "I'll need to drive Gil to the halfway house first," Sara went on with confident hands, _halfway house_ a term she'd learned to sign only recently, "for four o'clock. We'll head straight home afterwards."

Nodding, Betty pointed at the dog and then at herself and signed, "Mabel and I will be there waiting." Her face lit up mischievously. "We can be the welcoming committee."

Sara laughed. "Gil will like that." She stilled her hands, hesitating. "I don't want you to go to any trouble with cooking," she went on. "We can order in."

Betty brushed Sara's comment aside with a wave of her hand. "I'm sure Gil's had enough rubbish food to last him a lifetime. I'm cooking and that's that."

Sara's face softened affectionately. She knew when she was beaten and, in all honesty, a nice home-cooked meal was probably what Grissom needed most. "It'll be a nice surprise for him."

Betty's smile broadening, she opened both hands with her middle finger forward a little and tapped her fingers on her chest repeatedly.

Sara laughed again. "Me too," she signed, "I'm excited."

She spent another half an hour with Betty and after giving Mabel a good ruffle of her coat and warm words of comfort went on her way. She had a five-hour drive ahead of her, well, provided there weren't any holdups, and she wanted to avoid the worst of the rush hour traffic if she could. She did, reaching the hotel by late afternoon. In her room, she had a shower, then spread out on the bed and once again checked all the detail and conditions of Grissom's transfer the next day.

He would be released at 8.30 in the Receiving and Discharge area of the facility, and Sara would be there waiting. The warden had granted him a furlough back to Vegas, which meant that Sara had been approved to pick Grissom up from his current facility and drive him to the halfway house he was registered with in Vegas before she was allowed to take him home. They had been given a strict route and timetable to stick to, with one gas and rest break worked into the day. Because he would be wearing a GPS-tracked electronic monitor on his ankle there would be no deviating from it.

The consequences if he violated his parole conditions didn't bear thinking about. They had a Vegas number to call in case of emergency or unforeseen delay. She hoped there would be none. Even though Grissom would serve the end of his twenty-seven-month sentence at home, he was under the purview of the Las Vegas Parole and Probation Office and as such would need to present himself to the halfway house he was registered with for weekly meetings until the end of April. Only then would the ankle bracelet come off and he'd be free to do as he pleased.

Remembering her promise only belatedly, Sara texted Betty with news that she'd arrived at the hotel safely, then asked how the afternoon had gone. As she waited for a reply, she opened her phone photo gallery and clicked on the picture of Mabel she'd taken to show Grissom before swiping her finger over older photographs until she found one of Hank and Grissom she'd taken back in 2015. She was staring at the photo, a fond smile on her face at the recollections that came flooding back, when Betty's reply came.

 _All good_ , the older woman had written. _Went for a long walk in Sunset Park. Both now ready for some dinner and then bed._

Sara had some dinner too, then tired by the long drive easily fell asleep, only to wake up in the early hours, restless and eager to get going. She tossed and turned in bed for a while, switched the television on and then off again, before deciding to have another shower so she could wash her hair and let it dry in soft curls the way Grissom liked it. Then she got dressed, applied the lightest trace of makeup on her face, two squirts of perfume, and at six am on the dot went down to breakfast.

She was too excited to eat, but she drank some coffee and managed to spirit away a couple of Danishes she and Grissom could share later. And then she was on the road again, this time headed to Taft less than an hour away. She kept the music off as she drove, needed the quiet to still her racing heart. She knew she would be too early, but she'd rather have to wait for him than the other way around. She was reaching the outskirts of Taft on Highway 119 when, seeing the flashing lights of police and emergency vehicles in the distance, she eased off the accelerator.

Her heart sank. The cars in front of her slowed down too until moving at a crawl they all came to a standstill. "No, no, no," Sara cried out, lightly banging the steering wheel in frustration. Her eyes flicking to the dash clock, she took a deep calming breath. 7.34; still plenty of time to get there. She turned the radio on, tuned it to a local traffic information station. No mention of a road traffic accident anywhere. Then it was 7.45, 7.56, 8.05 and desperate she began playing with her car's navigation system to try to find an alternative route. There wasn't one.

By 8.15, she was panicking, almost considered ditching the car and walking it. She'd tried to call the prison to let them know of her tardiness but hadn't managed to get through to anyone. Would they let Grissom out if she wasn't there, she wondered? She couldn't begin to imagine how disappointed he would be if she was late and he had to wait to be released. Tears built in her eyes at the thought. Eventually, the few people that had come out of their vehicles to see what was happening got back in and sitting up straighter in her seat she scanned her eyes right, then left and over car roof tops for signs that they were finally moving again.

They were. Her heart was once again pounding as she turned her engine back on and slowly began rolling forward. Three lanes of traffic were being merged into one but at least they were on the move. It was 8.25. There was no way she would be on time, even if she broke the speed limit. As it was she arrived at the R&D area of Taft camp at 8.55. She parked the car in the first available spot, grabbed her bag and half-trotted, half-ran over to the visitors' entrance, yanking the door open with far more force than was necessary.

The small lobby was deserted, and breathless she presented herself to the officer on duty. "Hi," she said, opening her messenger bag to take out her paperwork. "My name is Sara Grissom. I'm here to collect my husband." She gave Grissom's name and inmate number. "He's due to be released today."

"You're late."

"I know. I'm sorry. I drove from Bakersfield. There was an RTC on the 119 on the outskirts of Taft and they shut the road."

The officer gave a nod before instructing her to put the BOP letter she was holding in the transfer tray.

"Has Gil—my husband been waiting long?" she asked, as he began entering information on his computer.

The officer shook his head. "They only just finished processing him." He looked up from his screen. "Can I have your driver's licence, proof of insurance and ownership of the vehicle?"

"Sure." Sara rummaged in her messenger bag for the necessary documents and put everything in the transfer tray.

The officer checked her details against what he had on record. "Okay," he said, finally turning back to her. "Everything looks fine. You understand all the conditions of your husband's transfer furlough?"

"I think I do."

The officer went over them anyway. "Any violation of any of the terms," he went on afterwards, "will result in immediate disciplinary action being taken."

"I understand."

"You need to read the form and sign here," he said, pointing at the bottom of a form he'd just printed off before putting the document and a pen in the tray.

Hastily scanning her eyes over the form, she scratched her name at the bottom and returned it to the officer.

The officer swapped the form for all her documentation and pushed the tray back toward her. "Head over to the blue gates thirty yards on your right as you come out," he said as she collected everything. "That's where your husband will be released."

Her heart was pounding in anticipation. "Okay," she said, looking up and mustering a tight smile. "Thank you." Hurriedly, she put her documents back in her bag and lowered the flap.

"Have a nice day, Ma'am."

"You too," she replied, glancing up.

Turning away from the counter, Sara blew out a deep, calming breath and the excited smile she'd been suppressing for so long reappeared. A few more minutes and they would be reunited. As instructed, she took a left and hurried over to an automated pedestrian metal gate next to a much larger vehicular one. Both were closed, but she knew from the CCTV cameras that tracked her movement that she wasn't alone. She wondered whether Grissom was the only inmate being released that day, couldn't see anybody else around, even inside parked cars. Moving to stand near the wall, she wrapped her arms around herself to fend off the cold January wind, wished she'd remembered to wear a thicker jacket.

At 9.21 am exactly, after what seemed like an interminable wait, the small gate finally buzzed before it clicked open and Sara stepped forward. She heard voices, a female one and then Grissom's unmistakeable timbre as he thanked her. Her eyes welled up with tears at the sound, at the fact that what she'd been waiting for, for months, was finally happening, but her tears remained poised until he finally stepped through the gate.

"Gil—" His name was no more than a whisper on her lips.

His face lit up with love and relief, with happiness, as soon he laid eyes on her. Her smile trembled, and pinching her lips she willed herself to stay strong but it was no use and overwhelmed by a rush of emotions so intense she burst into tears. His eyes filled at her reaction. He blew out a breath and dropping his bag to the ground took a step toward her. His arms opened wide and Sara threw herself into his embrace, pressing herself against his body with her wet face in the crook of his neck.

"Oh, sweetheart," he breathed into her ear in a choked whisper, cradling her head to him before pressing his lips to her hair.

They held each other tightly, almost fiercely, for long minutes while she let her tears fall. When she felt calmer, she pulled back from him and gave him a tremulous smile he returned shakily. Staring at her intently, he cupped her face with both hands and gently kissed her on the mouth. Her eyes closed at the fresh wave of sensations, at the relief, that coursed through her body. His lips were soft and tender, tentative at first but, when she opened her mouth and sought his tongue, he returned the kiss with a passion that left her breathless and wanting more. So much more.

"You don't know how long I've been waiting to do that," he said, laughing with disbelief as he pulled back.

"I think I can guess," she replied, choked-up.

He nodded at the cameras. "But maybe not here, huh?"

She laughed. "I'm sure they've seen it before. And worse."

He pulled a face. "Still," he said, bending to pick up his bag. "Let's get out of here before they realise they made a mistake and call me back."

She threw a fearful glance toward the gate then back at him and he winked at her. It was so good to see him so happy, so carefree. The smile not leaving his lips, he draped his arm around her shoulders and pulling her to him gave her lips another kiss. Their gazes locked, their smiles faded, and as they watched each other solemnly she saw love in his eyes, an overwhelming amount of undying love, but relief too at the second chance he'd been granted and the promise that he would do better by her from now on.

"Come on," she said, nodding toward the car lot up ahead, "We're on a tight schedule."

"That we are," he replied.

"I'm sorry I was late," she then said, as arm in arm they crossed the road.

Frowning, he looked over at her. "Were you? I thought _I_ was. I thought you'd have got here really early actually," he went on in a knowing chuckle, "And been waiting out here all this time."

She shrugged. "I would have been if an RTC hadn't shut the road on the outskirts of Taft."

"Good to see some things haven't changed," he said, laughing as he tightened his hold on her shoulders.

Sara watched as lifting his face to the sky he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Clean-shaven, he'd had his white hair cropped short again, and she was glad to see he was wearing the release clothes she'd sent him. He looked so much slimmer than he used to, so much more toned too, certainly not as gaunt or haunted as he had done when she'd visited him that first time either. She glanced down at his sneaker-clad feet and idly wondered which ankle held the electronic monitor. She'd find out soon enough.

"What happened to the Prius?" he asked with surprise, refocusing her. A frown creasing his brow, he was looking around the lot.

"It got old." She smiled when he looked over at her. "It gave up on me last year." She indicated the red Honda CR-Z a little further ahead. "Still a hybrid. Got to do my bit for the environment, right?"

Smiling, he gave a nod, but his expression was slightly subdued now and she realised that a lot of things had changed in her life that he still didn't know about. Locating her key fob in her jacket pocket, she unlocked the car and opened the trunk and he put the laundry bag containing his meagre belongings alongside her case. She was putting her messenger bag and jacket on the backseat when it occurred to her that he might like to drive.

When she saw him walk around to the passenger side, she remembered his driver's licence was suspended. With a sigh, she got behind the wheel but before she started the car turned toward him. Looking almost downcast now, he was carefully putting his seatbelt on and she realised that not only had he not driven a car in over two years but also that he hadn't been inside one in all that time either. What must be going through his head right now?

"You okay?" she asked, gently touching her hand to his leg.

Turning, he gave her a reassuring smile. "Sure. It's all just…a little overwhelming, that's all," he admitted in a small shrug, and covered her hand with his.

"It's going to be fine, Gil. You're going to be fine."

"I know." A loving smile on his lips, he watched her intently for a moment before he lifted his hand to her face and stroked her cheek. "I've missed you so much."

"And I've missed you."

His smile broadening, he leaned forward and Sara met him halfway for a kiss and a tender hug. "I still can't truly believe this is happening," he went on, pulling back.

It was her turn to stroke his cheek. "It _is_ happening."

He gave a solemn nod. "Come on," he then said. "We really ought to make tracks now if we want to be in Vegas by 4pm."

Sara started the car, buckled up and they set off. As she negotiated her way out of the vast prison complex, she kept stealing glances at her husband but he was looking ahead, giving nothing away of his thoughts. She was taking the right turn toward Taft when she remembered that he might not have had breakfast. "There's food on the backseat if you're hungry," she said. "Water too."

"I'm okay for now," he replied, smiling.

She'd been driving for a few minutes when again she looked at him. His eyes were closed. She was wondering whether he'd fallen asleep when his eyes reopened and he turned toward her with a smile. "You want to listen to the radio?" she asked, returning the smile. "To some music? I brought a few CDs from home. They're in the glove compartment."

"No, this is fine. Thank you. Later maybe."

Her smile fading, she nodded her head, then turned her attention back to the road. She was trying too hard. Still, as she drove through Taft, she told him about the strict itinerary they were supposed to follow and that they were only allowed one short and then a longer rest stop when they could grab some lunch. Scoffing, he opened his mouth to reply, but seemingly thinking better of it returned to watching the passing scenery.

"What?" she asked, frowning, her eyes flicking to him and then back to the road.

"Nothing. I was just…" Letting his words trail, he gave his head a shake. She didn't think he would finish his sentence when he said, "When we were in transit, you know, between facilities, we sometimes didn't get bathroom stops for five, six hours straight."

He gave a lengthy sigh and looked over at her, and she smiled encouragingly. A question formed in his eyes then; did she really want him to carry on? She knew talking about his experiences – good and bad – with her instead of keeping them hidden like a shameful secret, however hard it would be to hear, would be better in the long run, so she gave him the nod.

"There was this time," he went on, turning his face forward again, "the first time I was taken to the transfer centre in Oklahoma City. We'd been on the chain for hours already when we got stuck in traffic someplace and were late getting to our destinations."

Stopped at a stop sign behind a car, Sara flicked her eyes over to him, but he wasn't looking at her. He didn't seem to be looking at the scenery either. Lost in his recollections, he just stared straight ahead unseeingly.

"Anyways, this guy, a young guy, twenty maybe? Well, he needed to go, you know? So he did. In his pants." He paused and scoffed and shook his head again. "The officers, well they could go any time we got to a new destination but us inmates, no. They point blank refused; we just didn't have the time they said. We were all chained up; it would have taken too long." Refocusing suddenly, he gave her a sad smile.

"Well," Sara said, trying to keep her tone and expression light despite how sad she felt inside. " _We_ can stop anytime you want."

His expression brightened. "I think I'll be alright." His shoulder rose apologetically. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound so…maudlin."

The car in front pulled out, and Sara quickly followed suit. "It's okay. I don't want you to feel like you can't tell me all of this, like you have to keep it to yourself." She waved her hand between them. "That's not what you and I are about."

"I know."

"This is a second chance for us as much as it is for you."

He gave a slow nod of the head.

"Talking of second chances. My cell's in my bag on the backseat. There's a couple of pictures of Mabel on it."

His face lit up suddenly, and he turned around on the seat, reaching for her messenger bag.

"You're going to love her, Gil," she went on when he'd finally located her cell. "She's so gentle, so docile, but very sharp with it, you know?"

He slipped his glasses out from his shirt's breast pocket under his sweater and put them on. Then he turned the cell on, and Sara refocused on driving. "It wants a password, or your fingerprint."

"The password's your date of birth," she said, flicking a sheepish smile over to him. She couldn't help noticing how awkward he looked with the phone in his hands.

"They gave mine back to me," he said. "This morning. It's in the bag in the trunk."

Sara nodded. "We'll get you a new one. One with your own fingerprint." Her eyes widened at what she'd just said. His fingerprint on a sports bag used at a liquor store robbery was what had given the fact that he was in prison away. "Sorry," she said suddenly fearful. "I didn't mean to—I didn't mean anything by it."

"I know and it's okay," he said, smiling. "I don't want you to walk on eggshells around me." He brought up the picture of Mabel and seemed to stare at it for a long time. "I look forward to meeting her. What's her story again?"

Sara sighed. "Her elderly owner died six months or so ago, and the family couldn't – or didn't want to – keep her. Because of her age and size – and the amount of hair she sheds," she added with disbelief, "the centre found it hard to find her a new home."

"Giving an old dog a home, huh?"

A wide, dancing smile playing on her lips, she remembered the phone conversation they'd had when she'd first mentioned she was thinking of giving an old dog a home and he'd assumed she was talking about him. "Something like that."

He lifted the cell in her eye line. "Do you mind if I text Mom?"

"Of course not," she exclaimed, cursing herself for her oversight. "She'll be waiting for news."

Sara kept her eyes on the road while he composed his message. It seemed to take him longer than expected, but she didn't ask. He was putting the cell away in her bag when he said, "What's this?"

Once again, Sara glanced over at him. He was holding Manuel's latest letter. "It's a letter from Manuel," she said, needlessly for Manuel's name, inmate number and facility name were clearly written on the envelope. "It came in the mail a couple of days ago."

Grissom turned the letter over in his hand. "You didn't open it?"

Turning left onto the South Lake Road from Gardner Field Road, she shook her head. "I thought we could do it together."

Without wasting time, Grissom slipped his finger in the opening, tearing the envelope open. When he didn't speak for some time, Sara turned toward him, but he was engrossed in his reading. The smile on his face despite the film of tears in his eyes, told her it was good news. Opting to give him a little time with Manuel, she refocused on driving. There was little traffic and they were making good time. She was sure he would read the letter out to her eventually. A few minutes later he did.

 _Querida Sara_ , he read, and paused.

Sara turned toward him expectantly, and looking over the top of his glasses he gave her a long sideway look. "You know what Querida means in Spanish, right?"

Frowning, she turned her gaze back to the road. "Dear?"

"Yes, dear," he replied with a wry twist of his lips. "It also means Darling."

Sara pinched her lips to hide her growing smile. "I did not know that."

Turning back to the letter, Grissom made a grumbling sound, and she laughed.

 _Querida Sara_ , he started again.

 _I'm so happy to hear G will be out soon. You must be ecstatic! Thank you for my Christmas present by the way. As you can see, it's already coming in handy._

She chuckled, and Grissom stopped reading. "You sent him a Christmas present?"

"It was a spur of the moment thing," she replied, her shoulder rising mildly. "He happened to mention he was learning to do crosswords, so I got him a dictionary/thesaurus combo. Hence the ecstatic, I guess."

Grissom's brow furrowed, but he didn't comment. He just returned to reading the letter.

 _G's done his time, and now with you he can start afresh. He's going to need help, Sara, I hope you don't mind me saying, help and support, because life on the outside for an ex-con isn't easy. Getting a job for starters, which let me tell you will be a condition of his parole, will be hard. You think when you've done your time that you get a clean slate, but the label sticks. He won't be able to go back to teaching, that's for sure, you know, in schools or college or wherever, which is a shame because he's a great teacher. The best I ever had anyways, but you know that already._

Grissom's voice caught as he read Manuel's heartfelt words, and Sara reached her right hand across to his left one holding the letter and squeezed it comfortingly. After smiling uneasily back at her, he made himself continue.

 _He never belonged behind bars, never should have been put in with us, hardcore criminals, but that's a different story. Tell him that I wish him well and that I hope things work out for him. Tell him not to worry about me, that I'm doing well. Mi mama brought mis niñas to visit just after Christmas. It was the first time I saw them in nearly five years. They've grown so much. They're so bright, so beautiful. I told them about passing my exams and my plans for the future. I'm going to work hard for them, for their future, so they have opportunities and don't make the same mistakes I did. My case manager says he's going to put in a good word for me with the Forestry Commission for when I come out. Not long now. I can't wait. Then I can buy G that steak we talked about once. Way back when._

 _Keep well and I hope you can write back soon,_

 _Manuel._

Looking up, Grissom took a deep breath he let out slowly. "He sounds so together," he said, sounding almost surprised. "So focussed on turning his life around. Almost fulfilled."

She nodded. "I think he is. He's got a goal now, something worth working towards."

Grissom nodded. "He likes working outdoors," he went on, somewhat introspective now. "That's been the making of him. The manual labour gives him a sense of achievement, a purpose. He can see he makes a difference. Maybe a small difference, but a positive difference nonetheless."

Pursing her mouth thoughtfully, Sara slowed down at an intersection. "I guess he's never felt that before."

Grissom considered her words. "I felt like that too, you know, back in Beaumont, when I tended the grounds." He lapsed into silence for a few minutes and concentrating on the road again she let him. "You know, I think I'd like to work outdoors too now," he then said, swivelling on the seat toward her. "Do something with my hands. Something concrete you can see the results of there and then. I was reading the gardening book you got me for Christmas and it got me thinking."

Sara turned a wide smile toward him. "It did?"

He gave her a soft nod, but didn't further elaborate, and she didn't question him either. She was sure that when he was ready to tell her of his plans he would. His stomach made a loud gurgling sound, and they laughed. He put Manuel's letter back in the envelope, the envelope back in her bag by his feet before stretching back to reach the bottle of water on the backseat. He twisted the lid, then took a long swig before wiping the cap and offering the bottle to her. Carefully taking the bottle while keeping her eyes on the road, Sara took a small sip and then another and gave the bottle back to him. He then reached for the pastries and offered her half of the first one.

"Do you want to stop?" she asked. They were in a small town called Millux, headed toward Conner and then the 223. "And stretch your legs a little? You seem a little…cramped."

"No, I'm fine," he said, chewing. She inhaled her half of Danish while he took very small bites of his as if savouring every single morsel. "I'd rather make tracks, if you don't mind. Unless you want to stop? Are you tired?"

"I'm okay."

They ate the second Danish in companionable silence. Afterwards, Grissom checked to see if his mother had texted back – she had – then closed his eyes and dozed off. As she sped along the very long and straight 223 – part of the National Purple Heart Trail – she turned the radio on low, then kept stealing glances at him, her head shaking in disbelief at the fact that he was finally coming home. It was only then that it began to sink in. She was stopped at the intersection with the Barstow-Bakersfield Highway, waiting for a gap in the fast-moving traffic, when he began to stir.

"Sorry," he said, stretching awkwardly in the seat, "I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"Don't worry about it."

He smiled at her, then looked at the dash clock and scanned his eyes around to get his bearing.

"Still in California, I'm afraid," she said, turning her attention back to the traffic. "But on schedule."

When a gap appeared, she took the right turn and quickly accelerated away before setting her speed just below the sixty-five-mile-per-hour limit for the long climb up the Tehachapi Mountains at the southern extreme of the San Joaquin Valley. Soon they lost car radio reception and Grissom opened the glove compartment. He took out the CDs she'd brought, his brow rising at her selection.

"Vivaldi, Einaudi and…Fleetwood Mac?"

"'Two out of three ain't bad'," she said, laughing and then realising what she'd just said, "At least, I didn't bring any Meat Loaf."

"'You took the words right out of my mouth'," Grissom retorted, a smug smile twitching at his lips.

"Glad to see you haven't lost any of your wit."

Rolling his eyes in mock-annoyance, he looked at the three CDs in his hands before taking Fleetwood Mac's _Tango in the Night_ out of the case and feeding the CD into the inbuilt player. _Big Love_ came on, and Sara winked at him. Turning the sound up a little, she began to sing, quietly at first, then a little louder and an incredulous smile on his lips Grissom joined in for the ah, ah, hos. They were having fun together, the first time it happened in two years.

"So," she said, as she drove past a large sign advertising Denny's Diner. "What's the story behind the steak?"

He frowned. "The steak?"

"Between you and Manuel."

"Oh," he laughed. "Steak was something we fantasised about." His expression turned serious, almost pained. "That and ice cold beer." Slowly, he told her about the time they were on lockdown and continually hungry, because all they had to eat were bad sandwiches and whatever commissary food they happened to have in their possession at the time. In his and Manuel's case, pouches of mackerel fillets they rationed. He was smiling as he spoke now, which Sara thought strange but encouraging because it meant that not all of his prison recollections were bad ones.

"How about we stop for lunch?" she said when he lapsed into silence. "There's a rest area ten miles from here, just before Boron. I'll treat you to that steak. How about that, huh?"

His face lit up with surprise. "A steak, from you?" His mouth pursing, he pretended to consider her offer. "You're sure you can manage it? I mean, it's been a long time. It could get messy."

She laughed. "I think I can make an exception, just this once."


	43. Chapter 43

A/N: Apologies once again for an overlong chapter. Rating changing to 'M' at the end too, so please read responsibly.

Epilogue to follow.

* * *

"Chronic remorse, as all the moralists are agreed, is a most undesirable sentiment. If you have behaved badly, repent, make what amends you can and address yourself to the task of behaving better next time. On no account brood over your wrongdoing. Rolling in the muck is not the best way of getting clean."

-Aldous Huxley, _Brave New World (1932)._

* * *

Grissom tried another bite of steak, but more than stuffed had to declare defeat. He'd only managed half of the amount on his plate. His body wasn't used to eating so much anymore, and his stomach felt bloated and tight. He'd smiled uncomfortable thanks when the server had put his plate down in front of him, but just looking at it had made him feel queasy. Sara was finishing her avocado chicken Caesar salad, sans chicken of course, and he wished he'd ordered the same. How could he forget how large portions were in the outside world?

She'd registered a look of surprise when he hadn't ordered a beer to go with his meal, but she hadn't commented and he was grateful for that. He'd worked through a lot of his issues over the past few months, but he realised now that some clearly still remained. He didn't feel he had the right to consume alcohol anymore. Drinking that night had been his downfall, he was sure of it. If he'd been sober, he would have been in full control of himself and his driving. His concentration wouldn't have been impaired, and he wouldn't have run the red light.

He didn't think he could ever drive again either. Getting in Sara's car back at the prison complex hadn't been as straightforward as he'd hopefully made it look. When they'd first set off, he'd got such vivid flashbacks of the crash he'd caused that for a moment he almost asked her to stop the car so he could catch his breath. The only way he had managed to keep his composure was by closing his eyes and imagining himself at his destination already. Visualisation techniques had worked for him in the past, and he was glad they'd worked then too. Sara was a safe and steady driver, and he'd soon found himself relaxing.

Slowly, self-consciously, he placed his cutlery on his plate and drank the last of his Seven Up. When he looked up, he found Sara watching him and he smiled.

"Something wrong with you food?" she asked, finishing her mouthful.

"No. Sorry." He rubbed his stomach. "I'm just…full."

"I guess it was just too much, huh?"

He gave a soft nod. "I'm not used to eating so much anymore," he admitted quietly.

"Hey, it's okay," she said soothingly. "Don't worry about it."

Still, he felt bad throwing away all that food when for two years he'd never had enough to eat to satiate his hunger. "I hate for it to go to waste, though."

She smiled. "It won't. We can ask to have it packaged. Take it home for Mabel."

His face lit up. "I forgot we had a dog," he said, chuckling. "A doggie bag? I'd forgotten about those too." He watched Sara tenderly for a moment before reaching for her hand on the table and squeezing it warmly. She was so undemanding, so easy-going that once again he felt his feelings of anxiety dissipate. "Thank you for making today so easy for me."

"What? Allowing you to eat steak?"

He laughed. "No. Yes. Just…" He shrugged, "Thank you for being you, I guess."

Her face softening with love, she squeezed his hand back. "You're welcome. But today's not over just yet. I've got a little more in store for you. You know, when we get home."

His heart sank at the thought that she'd planned a 'Welcome Home' party but, unwilling to offend her when she'd gone to so much trouble for him already, he kept quiet.

"Don't worry," she went on brightly. "It's all good."

He mustered a smile. "I'm going to go and…use the men's room. I won't be long."

Sara's smile faded. "Okay."

In the bathroom, Grissom took care of business, then washed his hands and splashed a little water on his face. He felt tired all of a sudden, tired and weary, as he watched his reflection in the old, tarnished mirror. He just wanted to be home already, away from the crowds. Even though the diner wasn't overly busy, it still felt like all eyes were on him. He knew it was a distorted view of the facts, but he couldn't help feeling ill-at-ease and self-conscious, as though he didn't quite belong with everyone just yet.

When he was ready, he made sure his pant leg completely covered the ankle bracelet before going back to Sara who, shouldering her messenger bag, immediately stood to leave. The table had been cleared, and a wide smile on her face she raised the doggie bag in his eye line. "You ready to go?"

He gave a nod.

"I don't want to be late twice in one day," she said, moving toward the door. "And we still got about three hours left."

He opened the door and followed her outside where they fell into step. They were crossing the small lot over to the Honda when he took her hand and gently held her back. "Sara—" he said, almost shouting to be heard over the noise of passing traffic from the highway nearby, and sighed.

"You okay?" she asked, her brow creased with concern as she turned toward him.

He licked his lips, searching for the right words.

"Gil? Has something happened?"

The passing traffic was distracting him, and he gave his head a shake in reply. "Let's get inside the car," he said.

Her expression solemn, Sara watched him with worry for a few seconds before she nodded her head. She unlocked the car and, while she stowed the goodie bag in the trunk, he took his place in the passenger seat. He was buckling his seat belt when she got in.

"Gil?" she said, shutting her door and turning toward him. "I'm not leaving until you talk to me."

Her stubbornness made him smile. "Then we'll never make it for four."

She gave him a stern this-is-no-joking-matter look and he sobered up.

"It's about tonight," he went on with an uncertain sigh, turning his body toward her. "About what you got planned for when we get home. I mean, you—you…haven't organised a…" He winced, "A party, have you?"

She frowned. "Depends on your definition of party."

He let out another sigh. "It's just that…I don't think I'm in the mood, you know, for socialising or entertaining. I know they're our friends and everyone's been great, but they'll ask questions and I don't think I'm ready to—"

Her face softening in understanding, Sara covered his mouth with her hand. "No party," she said, smiling softly. "Not like you're thinking. Just…your mother for a quiet meal. And Mabel."

Relief flooded his features. "Thank you."

She gave him a tender smile. "I don't think I'm ready to share you with everyone just yet."

She brushed her hand to his cheek tenderly then leaned forward to kiss his lips. When she pulled back, he wrapped his arms around her and pressing his lips to her temple held her tightly to him.

"It's going to be fine," she said again, her warm breaths tickling the side of his neck. "I promise you."

They pulled apart and smiling lovingly Grissom gave her a nod.

"But remember to look surprised, okay?" she went on as turning back to the wheel she slotted the key in the ignition. "You're not supposed to know."

Smiling widely now, he pretended to zip his lips and throw away the key and she shook her head in amusement. He felt lighter for knowing there wasn't a party, happy too that he wouldn't have to wait until the next day to see his mother. Sara started the car and, after manoeuvring around the car lot's one-way system, they found themselves on the road again. Every so often, Grissom would stifle a burp and shift in the seat a little awkwardly but his earlier discomfort was easing.

When _Tango in the Night_ came to an end, he swapped back to radio mode. He played around for a while, trying to tune in to a station they'd both enjoy listening to, discarding various religious, Spanish and Country music stations, much to her growing amusement, until they finally settled on one that played soft rock music. He reckoned Sara must be getting tired by now, and he hoped that way she'd keep her wits about whilst driving.

As she drove, she often glanced toward him. Their eyes would invariably meet and they'd share long, complicit smiles. His hand would find its way to her leg, or to her arm holding the wheel, to her shoulder. Touching her was the only way he could make sure he wasn't dreaming. Even after everything that had happened, and the harm he had done her, she was still the same Sara. His Sara. The Sara he loved above all else and who loved him back. Unconditionally, it seemed.

Soon they reached the outskirts of Barstow. Sara joined the I-15 that would eventually take them to Primm on the California-Nevada border and then onward to Las Vegas. The landscape was looking more familiar now and, as he scanned his eyes over road signs and various landmarks, he felt a shiver of excitement at the fact that soon they'd be home. And the closer they got, the wider his smile seemed to get.

"You know, I was thinking," Sara said, cutting into his thoughts, "Maybe we could…organise to go visit Manuel."

Grissom refocused on her with a start. "What, in Oregon?"

She flicked her eyes over to him. "Why not?"

"Because that would be violating my parole terms," he replied sadly.

She stared at him levelly. "Not if we arranged to go in May, or June. It'd be something to look forward to, wouldn't it?"

Her words gave him pause, and he pursed his mouth thoughtfully. Could they do that, he wondered? Could an ex-con – a _felon_ – be approved to be added onto an inmate's list of visitors? He and Manuel weren't relations, let alone close ones, but he guessed that, like everything else in the system, it was up to the warden. Manuel was doing well, by his account, and maybe the warden wouldn't be adverse to a visit from Grissom. If he put in an application and was denied, he – and Manuel – could always appeal the case. It was certainly worth thinking about.

"I'd like that," he finally said with a nod of his head. "It might involve a lot of paperwork though."

She scoffed. "Doesn't it always? We'll deal with it," she added, not quite dismissively, but as though it was a mere formality, and patted her hand to his leg supportively.

He covered her hand and gave it a squeeze. He realised what she was doing, subtly but surely. She was helping him shape his future, with events and happenings he could look forward to. Which reminded him that he hadn't told her of his plans for the future yet. Several times he'd wanted to broach the subject over the phone, but then had thought it best to tell her in person. Now that he had the chance, he decided to tell her when she wasn't busy driving. He wanted to tell her when he was sure he had her full attention. He imagined telling her when they were lying in bed that very night, curled up in each other's arms.

He had thought about it a lot over the last few days. Maybe they made love first, maybe not. But in his mind they did, and as they lay content and sated afterwards, he would whisper his plans to her until exhausted they fell asleep. His body began to rouse. He shifted uncomfortably on the seat, and giving his head a shake drew himself back to the present. Sara was watching him with narrowed eyes, and he wondered whether she knew where his mind had taken him.

"You're right," he said, a wistful smile forming on his face. "We'll deal with it. I guess I'll have plenty of time on my hands anyway. You know, in the evenings, when I'm stuck at home and you're at work." Frowning, he paused in his tracks. "Talking of work, what if…Manuel were to find out you're a CSI?"

Sara's attention was back on the road now. "Do you want to tell him?"

He shrugged. "I wouldn't want to keep it a secret. I mean, back at Beaumont, I had to, but now…" He let his words trail.

She glanced at him. "Do you think it would cause a rift between you? If he knew I was law-enforcement, I mean."

"I don't know," he replied, once again lapsing into silence. Would it be a problem, he wondered then? His lying about his former line of employment might be more of an issue than not knowing about Sara. "I think he would understand why we kept it a secret, you know, and if we were to tell him outright, I think it'd be fine with it. I think he'd understand."

Sara gave a nod. "I think so too. I don't think it'll matter to him. I think the bond you share is stronger than that."

Nodding, Grissom reached down to his left ankle and scratched below the monitor. When he noticed Sara looking, he put his pant leg down self-consciously.

"Did you know," she said brightly, "that the tracker is waterproof to fifty feet?"

"I knew it was shower proof." He gave a sudden laugh. "Did you…research it?"

She pulled a face. "I might have done."

Again, he laughed. "What else did you find out about it?"

"Well, it can be used in a pool, or a Jacuzzi, and you can even go scuba diving with it on."

He registered a look of surprise. "Why would I want to do that?"

"It was just a thought."

He watched her with narrowed eyes for a moment. He was going to ask her to elaborate when they passed the first of a series of billboards advertising Buffalo Bill's Resort and Casino in Primm. His face lit up at the sight, and he scanned his eyes to the roadside ahead for signs of the next one. He had so many happy memories of the place, not to mention the first time he took Sara to ride the Desperado.

"Do you remember the first time you took me to ride the Desperado?" she asked, right on cue.

He laughed. "I was just thinking about that," he said, and they shared a long smile.

She eased off the accelerator. "Do you want to stop?"

"What? And take a ride?"

"Why not?" She glanced at the dash clock. "We got time."

He checked the time on the clock too. Technically they had time, but in reality with factoring in parking and waiting times, they would be cutting it fine. "I'd rather push on, if you don't mind," he said. "We could always come back another day."

Sara's face lit up. "Deal."

They crossed the California-Nevada state line into Primm. "Maybe we could bring my mother. Your mother too," he said.

"What? To ride the coaster?"

"No," he laughed. "Well, we could leave them at the outlet while we go for a ride." And then it occurred to him, "You told your mother I was coming home?"

Her expression darkened. "I did. But I…kind of kept sketchy about the details, you know. I'm not ashamed or anything," she insisted, glancing in his direction. "It's just—"

"Easier that way," he finished for her when she faltered. He covered her hand on the wheel and she turned toward him. "I know, and it's fine."

Smiling, she nodded her head in reply. "She said she couldn't wait to see you again."

He pulled a face. "I'll just have to make sure not to walk around the house in my shorts."

Sara's face pursed in confusion.

"You know," he said, lifting his pant leg to show the electronic monitor.

"Oh." A light blush crept up her cheeks. "And anyway," she went on, as he once again covered his ankle, "she doesn't come around all that often. I've missed not having you walking around the house in your shorts."

His face lit up with pleasure.

"Especially your old pair, you know, the red ones, the ones that are too short and loose and—"

"Don't!" he cut in, laughing. "They're – they _were_ – my most comfortable pair."

She looked at him meaningfully. "They still are."

"You kept them?" he exclaimed, surprised.

"I kept most of your things actually."

" _Most_ of them?" He made it sound like he was surprised that she hadn't kept _all_ his possessions, but it was only to tease her.

She gave a sheepish shrug. "Some stuff I did give to Goodwill. Mainly old clothes, suits and stuff. None of it would fit you now anyway."

He had imagined that after the break-up she had cleared the house of all his things, and it was of great comfort to know that she hadn't. Most spouses would have, he was sure of it, if faced with similar circumstances. He'd thought about asking her about it many times when they'd chatted on the phone, but hadn't dared lest the conversation turned awkward if she had indeed disposed of everything. He smiled as a vision of Sara making a bonfire of his things in their backyard filled his mind.

"Don't worry about it," he said with a lingering smile.

"I kept all your books and displays," she went on, almost apologetically, her eyes back on the road now. "I don't think you'll find the house changed much at all."

"Hey, it's okay. Things are bound to have changed. I expect that."

She flicked her eyes over to him and gave a nod. Smiling softly, he held out his hand to her and she took it. Traffic was getting heavier, and when she focused her attention back on driving, they lapsed into a comfortable silence. Grissom turned back to the scenery, taking it all in. None of it seemed to have changed at all. They were passing the town of Jean. Another twenty-five minutes or so and they'd hit the outskirts of Vegas.

"You know the address of the Halfway House?" he asked.

"It's my purse," she replied, nodding toward the backseat. "It's called Castle House, somewhere near the junction of East Tropicana with the 515."

Grissom reached for the messenger bag. He rummaged through the mountain of documents until he found an envelope with the Las Vegas Parole and Probation logo on. He took out the two sheets and after putting his glasses on read the content.

Soon they were on the Las Vegas Freeway. The first casinos and hotel resorts came into view. Then they were driving past Bali Hai Golf Club, and a couple of minutes later McCarran airport. Grissom hunkered down in his seat to see if he could spot the most famous sights coming up ahead. The back of the Mandalay Bay hotel complex came into view, followed by the Luxor and then the Excalibur. It felt as though he'd never been away, and he didn't know whether that was a good thing, or not. Sara checked her mirrors before changing to the right-hand-side lane, forking off toward Tropicana before stopping at the lights.

When the lights changed, she followed the line of cars and took a right turn, headed east on Tropicana. Grissom input the address in the navigation system and they arrived at their destination on Almagordo Street some twenty minutes later. Sara pulled up at the curb and he checked the house number against the number written on the letter. There was no sign, so name plate, nothing indicating the purpose of the building. The well-kept single-family ranch home with peach stucco walls had a double garage and looked nothing like a traditional halfway house. They shared a look.

"It's here," he said, his tone mirroring her look of surprise.

Sara cut the engine. "I'm going to wait in the car," she said.

He gave his head a nod. He was about to get out of the car when he stopped. Turning back to Sara, he leaned over and she met him above the middle console for a kiss. "I won't be long."

"Doesn't matter. Take as long as you need."

Blowing out a breath, he got out of the car and took his laundry bag out of the trunk. He loosened the toggle and took out his release papers. He double-checked he had everything he needed, shut the trunk and after waving at Sara watching through the car window followed the path to the side of the house to the front door. It was wide open. He popped his head in, looking for someone but the house seemed deserted. If it weren't for the CCTV cameras just below the roof line and inside the lobby, he would think he had the wrong address.

"Hello?" he called tentatively.

"In here!"

He stepped inside the house, uncertainly following the sound of the voice until he reached another open door on the right. It was some kind of office, small and cluttered but clean. He stopped hesitantly at the threshold. A man was sitting at a desk, his eyes steadfast on the computer screen a little to his left as furiously he typed at the keyboard. There was no nameplate either on the door or on the desk.

"Come in," the man said without looking up. "I won't be a minute."

Grissom took a step in and parked himself in front of the desk while the man finished. The one window gave onto the front yard and he could see Sara through the blind. "My name is Gil Grissom," he said when the man finally looked up. I'm looking for…Stanley Harris?"

"That's me," the man replied, pleasantly enough, "and call me Stan. You're early."

Grissom opened his mouth to retort, but as he couldn't find anything to say that wasn't an apology kept quiet.

"Take a seat, please," the parole officer said, vaguely motioning to a battered chair next to Grissom, "while I bring up your file."

Grissom did as bid and waited while Harris reviewed his file. After fastidiously double-checking all of Grissom's particulars against what he held on record, he said, "Says here, no substance abuse or mental illness."

"That's right."

Bringing a finger to his lips, Harris studied Grissom for a long moment as though undecided as to whether Grissom was telling the truth or not. Uncomfortable at the scrutiny, Grissom averted his gaze. "Educated and already in possession of work skills. I see you taught GED classes while you were in Beaumont?"

"That's right."

"Is that something you'd wish to carry on doing?"

"I don't know. I didn't think I could."

"Well, think about it. I know a couple of guys who could benefit."

Grissom gave a tight smile.

Harris turned back to his computer and updated the information he held on record, and Grissom glanced toward the window. "Sadly, a felony conviction on your résumé isn't going to help your search for work," Harris went on, refocusing him. "Especially in your previous line of work. You might have to settle for a lower-paying, lower-ranking job than what you previously did."

"I appreciate that."

The parole officer swivelled on his chair, reaching for a file behind him he placed on his desk in front of Grissom. "I've printed off some stuff you need to look at."

Sitting forward, Grissom looked at the file and nodded his head.

"We'll review it tomorrow morning at ten when I visit you at your residence."

"Tomorrow?"

Harris gave a decisive nod. "Ten am."

Regular home visits from one's parole officer were sadly part and parcel of being on house arrest, and all he could do was to give a dejected nod. He knew the officer would need to check that he actually lived at the address he had on file, but they would also check for illegal substances and items that would violate the terms of his early release.

"We'll make a start on a career plan then too."

Grissom's lips twisted in a wry smile. "I've already had a career."

"You know what I mean." Harris tapped his index finger on the file. "Make sure you read all the information. It's a condition of your early release to get yourself full-time employment. I can help with that."

He nodded. "Does it have to be paid work?"

Harris registered a look of surprise. "How do you mean?"

"Well, do I have to earn money for the work I do?"

"Oh, you mean working for free. As a volunteer?"

"Of sorts, I guess." Faced with the man's puzzlement, he felt compelled to explain further. "I'm…thinking of starting my own business. And obviously at the start there might not be any money coming in."

"Doing what?"

"Growing plants. I'm going to grow plants."

Harris stared at him blankly. "Grow plants."

"Yeah. I'd like to open my own nursery actually."

"By yourself?"

"Well, I'll start by myself, see how it goes but my long term ambition is…Do I have to outline all my plans now? It might take some time and…" He nodded toward the window. "My wife's waiting in the car outside."

Harris lifted a hand, stopping him. "Just the main points will do, for now."

Grissom gave a nod. "Okay. Well, my long-term ambition is to build a business that will eventually give ex-cons, people like me, employment. It's going to be hard work, I know that. But hard work doesn't scare me."

"Growing plants?"

"Why not?" he challenged.

Harris turned back to the computer, scanned his eyes over the information on the screen. "What do you know about growing plants?"

"A lot actually. And I've got books."

Harris fixed him with a bemused look. "And how are you going to finance your…" He waved his hand in the air, searching for the right word, "enterprise?"

"I've got some savings."

"They won't last long, believe me. Why don't you…ask around the local nurseries and see if they're hiring? That way, you could gain some experience first, and more importantly earn some money."

Discomfited, Grissom gave a nod.

"Okay, now to my next point – your wife's gun."

Grissom was expecting that. "It's been agreed that Sara won't keep her gun at home. It'll stay in her locker at work until the end of my parole."

"Good," the parole officer said, turning to his computer to update his records. "I think that's everything for today then," he went on, refocusing on Grissom. "Unless you have questions?"

"Not right now, no."

Harris gave a nod. "I'll see you tomorrow at ten am sharp." Standing, he motioned to the window. "Your wife will need to be there too."

"She will."

"I look forward to meeting her."

Pushing to his feet, Grissom held out his hand and, after registering a look of surprise, Harris shook it. "I'll see you tomorrow. Ten o'clock."

Harris showed Grissom out of the house, and as he walked down the path to the curb a battered Chevrolet Impala pulled up on the drive. Two men came out and headed to the house without giving him a second glance. Laughing, they wore paint-spattered jeans, plaid shirt and steel-toe boots. He wondered if they were parolees, like him.

"Everything okay?" Sara asked, starting the car as he got in.

"Sure," he said, and went on to tell her about the home visit scheduled for the next day. As she drove them home, Grissom leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. Harris hadn't sounded overly confident about his plans, and maybe he hadn't explained his vision very well, but his mind was set on trying and he knew he could make it work. He would start small, growing rare plants, cacti, palms and small shrubs he'd sell online and in Farmers' markets.

"We're home," Sara said, gently shaking his arm, and he startled.

"Sorry," he said, rubbing at his sore neck. "I didn't mean to…doze off."

She smiled.

"Mom's here!" he exclaimed, noticing his mother's car parked alongside Sara's on their drive.

Sara's smile widened. "Remember to act surprised."

The front door opened as they got out of the car and Betty and Mabel came out. Grissom gave his mother a happy wave and hurried over to her. He made the sign for 'hello' and when he noticed the tears filling her eyes took her in his arms for a long and heartfelt hug. He couldn't see it, but Mabel moved forward and sniffed at his legs interestedly. When he and Betty pulled apart, she cupped her hands to his face and stared at him at length. He could see all that she didn't sign in her eyes – overwhelming happiness that he was finally home, but relief too. He shared in her emotion.

"What a nice surprise," he signed, smiley eyes flicking between his mother and Sara when carrying his bag, her case and messenger bag Sara joined his side.

Betty and Sara shared a giddy look and he winked at them. Tail wagging, Mabel went to greet Sara who dumping everything on the ground bent down to return the greeting effusively. "I missed you too," Sara said, ruffling Mabel's coat as the dog licked her face. "And look who's here with me."

She looked up at Grissom who crouched down next to them a little diffidently.

"This is Gil," Sara told Mabel, and then looking at Grissom solemnly, "Gil, meet Mabel. Your dog."

While reaching over to stroke Mabel, he looked at Sara with surprise. " _My_ dog?"

She smiled at him tenderly. "Welcome home."

He felt himself grow emotional again, but Mabel licked at his face and laughing he turned his attention back to her. "Hello," he said, stroking around her ears before turning his face away when Mabel began kissing him more enthusiastically. "Oh, I like you too."

He looked up to the two women watching him. His heart filled with so much love and happiness – happiness he wasn't sure he deserved – that tears built in his eyes. He leaned over Mabel to kiss Sara on the lips but Mabel put her wet snout there before licking the both of them vigorously. Laughing, Grissom pulled back and met Sara's eyes. She was thinking the same thing; Hank used to do that too. Betty came forward and put her hand on her son's shoulder.

He pushed back up to his feet with a wince, his smile fading on noticing that his pant leg had caught on the electronic monitor. Quickly, he shook his leg to cover the device. "Let's get inside," he said with his hands, wary they were being watched. He picked up the bags and followed the women inside the house with Mabel bringing up the rear. The house was exactly how he remembered it. Sara was right; not much had changed at all.

Noticing the photo near the phone on the hall table, he picked it up and studied it at length. It had been taken in Costa Rica on their wedding day. They'd been happy then, more than happy, and he hoped they could be happy like that again in the future. Betty and Sara headed to the kitchen, with Mabel in tow. As he carried the luggage to the bedroom, he saw the chessboard on the coffee table and a smile on his face automatically played the first move, sliding a white pawn two squares forward.

In the kitchen, Sara and his mother were in full flow and he stopped at the threshold to watch their interaction. They were talking about dinner. Sara was as fluent with her sign language now as he was, and it warmed his heart to see how close they'd become. Mabel got up off the tile floor and after shaking herself came to meet him at the door.

Turning toward him, Sara smiled brightly. "Why don't you go take a shower?" she said and signed simultaneously, "While we get dinner ready."

"I'm okay."

"Drink?" his mother signed.

He lowered a flat hand from his chin. "A cup of tea would be lovely."

His mother nodded, then pointed at a chair and he sat down dutifully. They spent the next couple of hours together, chatting happily, making plans for the following weekend. Betty had prepared a nut roast with a selection of fresh vegetables and unlike at lunchtime he ate the food with gusto. She'd baked a simple apple pie for dessert and it tasted so good that he had seconds. He knew he'd pay later for once again overeating but just to see his mother and Sara happy made him happy.

After dinner, Sara suggested he took Mabel for a walk and after checking he had time he agreed. His curfew didn't start until 8.30 pm, so he had another hour or so when he could come and go as he pleased. Sara found his old jacket for him to wear, he grabbed Mabel's lead and a poop bag, and man and dog set off down the street. Instinctively, he took a right turn at the end, headed to the local park. He was grateful for the quiet of the walk, some alone time was just what he needed. Sara knew him too well. Mabel was well trained and even when they got to the park and he took her off the lead she never ventured very far from him.

"We need to get a ball," he told her. "Do you like to play fetch? I do."

Leaning her head to the side, Mabel gave a short bark and he laughed.

"That's decided then. Tomorrow we'll ask Sara to get you a ball when she goes to the store. How about that, huh?"

Again, Mabel let out a single bark.

"You're a smart girl, aren't you?" he said, leaning down to rub around her ears.

He wasn't wearing a watch, and wary he might lose track of time they made their way back. Sara and Betty were sitting in the lounge, watching television when they returned. The closed captioning was turned on, and he smiled. Mabel headed for the kitchen and, after smiling at the pair, he did the same, pouring himself a glass of water he took back to the lounge. Sara tucked her legs under her and he sat down on the couch next to her. Smiling at him, she stretched her legs over his, and after putting the glass on the coffee table he took hold of her feet. He glanced at the chessboard; she'd played her next move.

Betty pushed to her feet. "I'm going to head back," she signed, when they turned toward her.

"It's still early," Grissom countered with his hands.

She gave a knowing smile. "You've had a long day."

Sara folded her legs back and he stood up.

"Besides, we're all going for a walk with Mabel tomorrow."

He turned a surprised expression toward his wife.

She shrugged. "In the afternoon," she explained, "After the meeting with Stanley Harris."

He gave a nod, then turned back to his mother with a smile. He walked over to her and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you," he signed, "For being here tonight, and a lovely meal."

Betty waved his thanks aside, but it was clear from the trembling in her smile that she was touched by the words and his kiss. After brushing her hand to his cheek tenderly, she gathered her purse and jacket, then slipped her shoes back on before moving to the door, Sara, Grissom and Mabel following closely behind. Sara gave Betty a warm hug while Mabel hovered around uncertainly.

"You're staying here," Grissom told Mabel, patting his hand to her head affectionately, "With us."

Watching him, Mabel sat down on her hind legs and Grissom chuckled.

"I wish we'd gotten to meet her previous owner," he told Sara and his mother simultaneously. "He certainly did a better job training her than I ever did with Hank."

"That's because she's female," Sara retorted, visibly stealing the signs out of Betty's hands, and they laughed.

When after another set of warm hugs they closed the door on Betty, Sara locked up carefully, then stretched her back and gave a yawn.

"You must be beat," he said.

"A little."

Moving behind her, he raised his hands to her shoulders and began easing the kinks there.

"Oh, that's so good," she said, rolling her head forward to give him better access.

He continued gently massaging her neck for a few seconds before he leaned down and deposited the lightest kiss to her nape, only for his lips to stretch into a smile against her skin when he felt her repress a shiver. "And that?" he asked softly, pulling back. "Is that good?"

She turned around and her reply written all over her face watched him intently. He felt nervous all of a sudden, and afraid of what may or not happen between them. What if this first night together after so long apart wasn't what it was cracked up to be? Yes, he had often dreamed of this moment, and Sara had said she had too, but what if it was awkward and stilted between them? What if he couldn't deliver, or did too early?

"I'm going to go take a shower," he said. "See if this thing is waterproof after all." Smiling a little self-consciously, he lifted his left foot in the air.

"I'll just finish tidying here," she said, smiling. "I guess we can both do with an early night."

He gave a nod, then made his way to the bedroom where he grabbed his wash bag before heading to the adjoining bathroom. There he took off his clothes and stared at his reflection in the mirror. Sara was right, he had a lost a lot of weight, in fact his whole body shape was different. He hadn't realised to what point until he'd seen the pictures dotted around the house. Sad eyes lingered on the black monitor on his ankle, a constant reminder that he wasn't a free man just yet.

He went in the shower and turned the water on, amazed at the pressure pounding on his head and shoulders, stupidly amazed that he could regulate the temperature. He began washing quickly, as per his habit now. He was rinsing soap from his hair and face when the shower door opened. Surprised, he turned round. Sara stepped in and he moved back to make space for her in the small cubicle. They gazes locked. He saw uncertainty in her eyes, and he gave her a smile he hoped told her that what she was doing was okay. More than okay in fact.

She motioned for him to turn back around and unsure of her intentions he hesitantly did as bid. She picked up the sponge from the shelf, skirted a dollop of shower gel on it and slowly began to wash him. She didn't do anything sexual, she just moved the sponge over his skin, concentrating on his back and shoulders, but his body awakened all the same. He'd missed her touch so much. She stopped suddenly and he made to turn around, but her hands came to rest on his shoulders, keeping him in place.

She pressed the side of her face to his back. Her arms wrapped around his midriff as she held him to her, and his breath hitching he closed his eyes. They remained like so for a long moment, water cascading over them, before she began to kiss the skin she'd just washed. The tightening in his groin intensified and he squeezed his eyes tight, letting the sensations build until unable to take anymore he turned round toward her. She was watching him now, a soft, hesitant smile on her lips. He thought he could see tears in her eyes, but realised it was probably just the water gushing down her face.

He licked his lips and swallowed hard, then picked up the sponge from the shelf and motioned for her to turn around. Slowly, he brought the sponge to her back, her shoulders and neck, and trailed it back down to her lower back, her buttocks, the top of her legs, and then round to her front and stomach. She shifted on the spot, her legs parting a little for him, but he didn't go there, not yet. He just stroked the sponge to her breasts, pert, hard and enticing. Her breath catching, she tilted her head back toward him. God, he'd fantasised about that moment for so long.

His erection was so taut, so hard now, that he had to stop before he went over the edge. Breathing hard, he leaned his head on her shoulder and waited a beat. Sara shut off the water. Without a word, she turned and opened the shower door and taking his hand got out. He grabbed the towel and quickly wrapped it around her body. Sara reached for another one she used to dry her hair. Laughing a little self-consciously, they got themselves dry and ready for bed.

When they were finished, he shut off the light then took her hand and led her through to the bedroom and then onto the bed. He took a moment to watch her, naked and open on the bed, letting his eyes roam freely over her body. Apart from the few extra lines on her face, she hadn't changed at all. In the darkened light, he could see all the ridges and planes of her curves, her chest as it heaved slightly with every breath she took. He met her gaze then, and saw everything he felt in her dark brown orbs.

She moved to the middle of the bed and opened her arms out over her head in invitation. Slowly, almost shyly, and his gaze locked to hers, he took a step forward and put a knee on the bed between her legs. Her legs parted as she closed her eyes and he stroked feather-light fingers from the flower tattoo on her left ankle up her calf to her knee, her inner thigh, stopping just shy of her sex.

"It's okay," she said in a hoarse whisper, and he snapped his eyes back to her face. "I want this as much as you do."

He swallowed, then slowly, carefully eased himself onto the bed next to her. His erection resting safely against the side of her leg, he began kissing the spot above the thatch of dark hair, trailing his lips to her navel and then up over her stomach towards her breasts. She smelled and tasted so good. Her breaths coming in short rasps and pants, she lowered her hands to the back of his head and arched her body, seeking, needing more of his touch. More daring now, he caught her right breast in his mouth and sucked, his tongue darting out to stroke the nipple.

"Sorry," he said, pulling back when she let out a small cry.

Her eyes opened, dark and full of desire. "Sorry for what?" she whispered breathlessly. "Giving me pleasure?"

Her words were fuel to his fire. Pouncing, he captured her mouth in a searing kiss and she gave a long, needy moan. He trailed his lips to her neck and throat and when he took both breasts in his hands before greedily bringing them to his mouth, Sara's hands moved to his back, her fingers kneading and lightly scratching at his skin as she writhed under him, and then to his front, seeking his erection. She was ready for him, and God, was he ready to be inside her. She brushed her hand against him once, twice, and spread her legs. When instinctively he moved between them, she raised her pelvis and rubbed herself against him.

"Not yet," he gasped.

Her eyes opened, meeting and holding his. Reaching up, she cupped his face with her hands and their lips met for a long and passionate kiss. As they kissed, he slid one hand to her breast while the other supported his weight, then he moved to her other breast and then down and down until his fingers threaded through her damp hair and inside. The moan she let out into his mouth was raw, reverberating. Pulling back, he watched her face while he softly stroked and brushed and teased his fingers back and forth, in and out until her whimpers turned to moans and then to cries as finally he felt her body clench and contort.

"Gil," she panted, her pelvis rising and grinding against his hand in time with each tightening, "Please."

He pulled back from her, made eye contact again and removed his hand. Her eyes were heavy-lidded now, the yearning in them intense and mirroring his own. She took hold of him again, more roughly this time, and quickly guided him inside her. He adjusted his position and began to thrust, slowly at first, and then more deeply, more fervently. He was close, so very close, but still he made himself hold back until she finished riding the last of her orgasm and he finally let go before collapsing breathless and spent on top of her.

Laughing, he rolled off her. Even in his wildest dreams, he'd forgotten how good it was between them, how well they fitted together, how complete she made him feel. There had been no awkwardness between them, no caution or restraint from her, as he'd feared. Just love, pure, unadulterated love. It was as if the last two years had never happened. A dreamy smile on her lips, Sara let out a long contented breath and, snuggling up to him, kissed his chest.

There was a whimper at the closed door. Sara opened one eye and then the other and they exchanged a knowing look. He was going to ignore Mabel's pleas when she let out another, more plaintive whine. She didn't want to be alone, and he understood that all too well. Quickly, he got off the bed and opened the door for her. Sara pulled the covers back and slid between the sheets. He thought Mabel might climb onto the bed but instead she turned around on the spot by his bedside a few times before curling herself up on the carpet.

His head shaking in disbelief, he resumed his former position in Sara's arms and she reached to turn the bedside light off. He thought about telling her about his plans, but it could wait.

Instead he pressed his lips to the top of her head and closed his eyes.

He was home.

At last.

* * *

The end.


End file.
